The List of Words
by MyKonstantine
Summary: "I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out." Katniss and Peeta are forced to confront their demons as they struggle to make sense of their new complex relationship back in District 12. Pre-epilogue. Rated M for very adult themes.
1. Neighbor

_"Ally." Peeta says the words slowly, tasting it. "Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out."_ - _Mockingjay_

* * *

I'm writing this after a very long break from the world of fan fiction. I've just recently discovered _The Hunger Games_ trilogy and it's really inspired me to write again! I'm also writing this without the aid of any pre-readers, so hopefully it's not too much of a disjointed mess! Enjoy!

Rated M for later chapters, though there's a small taste of it in this one!

**Disclaimer:** All characters and settings in this story are the property of the brilliant Suzanne Collins.

* * *

I want to hate him so badly.

I want to rage at him for leaving me alone under a rose-tinted sky during the Quarter Quell. For letting President Snow break him. For his weak, fluctuating mind that challenged us as we snuck through the underbelly of the Capitol.

I want to lunge at him, grasp at the angry burn scars that gnaw at bits of his face and reprimand him for coming with us into the Capitol square, right up to the spot where carefully crafted double-exploding bombs ended a war and my thin veil of sanity all within moments.

Mostly, I want to hate Peeta Mellark before he comes to his senses and remembers all of the reasons why he should hate me.

I assume the reasons have not entered his mind yet, or they haven't become prominent enough in his mind for him to care, because he's standing in the kitchen of my house in Victor's Village once again.

He ladles a new, odd stew concocted by Greasy Sae into a bowl. My bowl is already in front of me at the table. Another lukewarm serving sits in front of Sae, who is waiting expectantly to see our reaction. Peeta doesn't bother to ask what our dinner actually consists of, nor do I.

Though I refuse to look straight up at him, I wait until I can see out of the corner of my eye that Peeta's situated himself at the table before taking my first bite.

The stew tastes.. unusual. I try to figure out the different ingredients. There's something that looks like meat and has a bitter flavor, but I know that Greasy Sae didn't get it from me. I gulp down the bite and try to stop thinking about it. As the aftertaste settles in my mouth, I realize that- whatever it is- it isn't half bad.

I take the quickest of glances in Peeta's direction. It seems he's also accepted the new dish, hungrily scooping up another spoonful. I turn to Sae and give her at nod of approval.

Not that we would ever complain. Even if I suspected that Greasy Sae was serving me vegetable soup laced with poison, I wouldn't dare say a word. She's come to my house twice a day to prepare meals, usually with her granddaughter in tow. She never questions me, gives me concerned looks or stays past her welcome. She enters, she cooks, she cleans, and she leaves.

I don't exactly know how Peeta became part of the arrangement.

One day, he was just there. He came in for breakfast just as Greasy Sae finished cooking. I assume Sae had invited him over. He left again before she even finished cleaning, but he was back again that night for dinner. So has become our mealtime ritual.

I've wanted to pick his brain, to ask him what he's feeling and if Dr. Aurelis had found a cure that relinquished all signs of his hijacking.

"Can you pass me a cheese bun?" I ask instead.

My only true opportunity for discussion came and went when I first noticed Peeta was back in Victor's Village. He was planting the evening primrose that now line the side of my house. I should have asked him then, but I ran away instead, desperate to scourge myself of my demons before confronting Peeta's.

We have not been alone together since. Peeta has not allowed it.

I refuse to chase after him. I never purposefully put myself in a situation where I have to confront Peeta. I only considered making the short walk to his house and knocking on the front door one night: I went to check on Haymitch and found him unresponsive next to a puddle of his own vomit. I was certain that the bastard had finally managed to kill himself. Right before I ran out the door to find Peeta, Haymitch's knife swung at me from the floor, tearing a hole in my pants.

I don't know why Peeta can't speak to me now, when I am perhaps more accessible than ever. There's got to be a good reason why he's turning his back to me. Honestly, I'm not sure I want to know what- or who- it is.

In my second chat with Dr. Aurelis, he suggested I reach out to former friends and acquaintances to form bonds with my loved ones once again. He gave me a list of suggestions. A list that did not include Peeta.

Surely the doctor assumed that having Peeta as a neighbor, along with a momentous list of shared experiences, brought us together again easily. If only that were the case.

All of the conversation between Peeta and me is mediated via Greasy Sae. It's mostly small talk: the weather, the house, new government appointees of no importance, food, Haymitch's bad habits, and the like.

Occasionally, on days when the curiosity is too difficult to overcome, we ask her about the people arriving in District Twelve and those who never returned.

"How is Mrs. Everdeen doing?" Peeta asks today. "Will she be coming back to the district soon?"

I look up slowly, surprised to see Peeta asking me about my mother. But when I follow his gaze, I see his eyes firmly locked on Greasy Sae. He's asking _her_ about my mother.

I scoff at his audacity. His eyes flick to mine for a fraction of a second, register my death glare, and look back to the now uncomfortable elderly woman across the table.

"I hear she's doing all right in District Four," she replies wearily. "Helping them start up a hospital out there, they say."

"The plans are brilliant," I blurt out, keeping my eyes affixed on her. "They're running out of some abandoned buildings now, but my mother told me they're building a state-of-the-art facility there that'll match what they've had in the Capitol all this time."

I shove another bite on stew in my mouth and begin speaking again before I finish chewing, waving my spoon around the in hopes of better expressing my faux enthusiasm. "They plan on having decent medical wards in every district within the next five years. Very interesting stuff."

I don't know why I suddenly speak like this. Perhaps it's the aching feeling inside that's been further disturbed by Peeta asking a near stranger about something that feels so undoubtedly mine.

There's no need to tell them that I gathered this information during the only conversation I've had with my mother since I left District Thirteen with the Star Squad. The one where we cried over Prim until both of our throats and hearts were raw from admissions of guilt and neglect, from claiming different ways in which we could have saved her. The one where my mother ended our talk by giving me a laundry list of excuses why she could never return to District 12 or look into my eyes again.

"Who's the new healer in the district?" Peeta questions, breaking through the muted depression settling over me. "Unless she's coming back once the hospital's done?" I don't look in his direction, gobbling up the last bits of my stew instead.

I want to ask him why. Has he been sick? I forget my worries quickly, remembering that Peeta and I are victors and symbols of freedom in the new Panem. We've got Dr. Aurelis and the rest of the country's doctors at our disposal for the rest of their unfortunate lives.

After too long a pause, I shake my head slightly. "Not sure," I hear Greasy Sae mumble.

The conversation wears off. Deep down, I know Peeta doesn't really worry about what new healer could be sent to Twelve. He's asking specifically for the whereabouts of my mother and whether she'll return to me.

He's asking whether or not I've been left alone for good. He's concerned.

He stays longer tonight to help Greasy Sae with the dishes, but still makes his exit first. He thanks her with a wide smile and quickly, silently waves his hand in my direction as he treads backwards toward the door before turning and passing through the threshold.

He's concerned, but not concerned enough to stay. He leaves me alone with my twisted nightmares for yet another night.

I hate him for it.

* * *

Checking on Haymitch is not a pleasant task.

I don't plan on doing it often, but there's a troublesome crash and an even more offensive smell emitting from his house as I pass by on my way to go hunting.

It's still quite early. Most people won't be waking up for hours, so nobody else is able to look into it.

My nose is tucked into my jacket before I even enter the house. On a good day, his residence reeks of liquor and sick, but I realize as I enter the hall that today is particularly awful.

I tiptoe to the end of the hall, through the parlor and into the kitchen where the culprit awaits.

Haymitch has tried his hand at baking. He's failed miserably.

Flour and sugar cover almost every inch of the countertops. An odd mix of herbs and spices are laid out on the table, including many that should never, under any circumstances, be used for baking.

There's a half solidified mess of the most foul looking bread I've ever seen on the floor next to an abused oven dish. Haymitch lays on the ground next to it in a drunken stupor, picking at bits.

"Shut up!" he grumbles before I say a word. "Your boy's stopped bringing me bread."

I should be angry and cursing, filled with sorrow over Haymitch's pathetic excuse for a life, but instead I'm laughing for the first time in ages. It's a hearty chuckle that isn't particularly loud, but makes my body shake is I try to suppress it.

"And so you made _this_?"

"It's the one with the berries," Haymitch defends. "I like that one a lot."

The crouch down near the mess. After a closer inspection, I notice that Haymitch's "berries" are in fact beans. I'm not entirely shocked that he can't tell the difference in the state he's in.

"You're pathetic," I tell him as I clutch his arm and begin dragging him away from the mess.

Knife still in hand, Haymitch falls on the couch in the other room, a crumpled pile of a man.

"Where's my housekeeper?"

"District Two, I guess."

"Ah," he licks his lips and barks out a laugh. "With your other boy."

I hadn't really thought much about Hazelle or her children, other than Gale. It only makes sense that they'd be in Two with him, but I never bothered to ask anyone.

"Saw him on television, you know." I can barely make out his words through the excessive slurring. "Cut his hair."

"I honestly do not care."

The knife is ripped out of Haymitch's hand before he has time to react. I hastily walk back into the kitchen and toss it into the sink. I leave the mess on the floor. I think about saying goodbye, but I figure Haymitch has already passed out.

The morning air is less bitter than it was the last few times I've gone hunting, signaling that spring is in full bloom.

"I don't care," I mumble to nobody. I honestly believe it. As long as Gale has found some peace, I'm going to try my best to do the same without him. Our relationship wasn't the same in the end. I want him to be happy.. somewhere far away from me.

My little visit with Haymitch has delayed me. By the time I reach the square, recovery workers are already starting to emerge from their homes. From what I've noticed on my sporadic walks, they managed to collect the bodies and fill in the meadow sometime last week.

Thom, a member of Gale's old mining group, is wheeling a barrel across the square toward the mayor's house. He's become some sort of manager in the recovery effort, so he seems to be working here from dawn until dusk each day.

"How's it going?" His head nods in my direction.

"Just passing through!" I reply, pointing out toward the fence.

"It's fine! We're heading to the mayor's house to clean out the last of the rubble. The plan is to rebuild it." Perhaps it's because I'm the Mockingjay or just because Thom has always been friendly, but he always feels inclined to give me updates, even when I don't ask.

"Apparently, they plan on getting some new local officials to step up in the districts. There will be an election soon enough."

"Really?" The surprise in my voice is genuine. There's been very little news as to how our new government would be run. I'd begun to think Boggs' talk of a republic had been lost.

After his confirmation, I feel invigorated as I make my way into the woods. My hunting skills have dwindled since my time in Thirteen. My arrows never hit my prey in the spots where they should and I actually scared off a sizable buck on my last trip. It's extremely frustrating, but I am making slow progress.

I trek into the woods for a half hour before I take down two overconfident squirrels. As I gather them up, I realize that I've gotten one through the eye.

My hoot of joy scares away all of the surrounding prey.

I move on to the lake. It takes me ages to get there and I know I'll be late for breakfast. I'm too worn to hunt for waterfowl, so I spread out an old net, dip my feet in the water, and begin to fish.

When I return to the house, my hunting efforts seem futile. The table is filled with a scrumptious arrangement of foods that I know Greasy Sae didn't scrounge up herself.

"Train came in this morning!" she chirps as she gages my reaction from the table. Everyone in the district has received food rations and basic supplies for the next several weeks.

Peeta and Greasy Sae's granddaughter are already eating with her. They're welcoming themselves into my home when I'm not even there.

I want to be angry, but there's a giant plate of sausage waiting at the table to be devoured. The words come out lightly, a smile playing on my lips. "Glad you've let yourselves in!"

Among the feast, I see that Peeta's brought berry bread. I laugh aloud, gargling orange juice and earning worried glances.

I stuff a bite of egg into my mouth before taking the bread off the table and setting it aside on the counter.

"I made that!" Peeta says dumbly. Oh, now he notices me!

"I'm donating it to Haymitch." I turn around to face him, my body blocking the bread from his sight in a defensive position. "You've stopped giving him bread for some reason," I accuse.

Peeta's face puckers in distaste. "He doesn't deserve it, the way he treats us. Why do you care, anyway?"

"He nearly burned his house down trying to recreate this loaf," I explain. "He put beans in it. Beans!" I involuntarily gag at the memory.

"He can have that one," Peeta concedes, "but I'm not baking him fresh loaves every day."

"He needs our help!" I don't know what I've gone on the defensive. My hands clench the countertop. "I don't know why you're so stubborn!"

Greasy Sae has become very interested in her oatmeal.

"If you knew half the things he's said about you..." he sputters over the words, "about us! He thinks he can do anything."

"He can! He saved your life! That was his call!"

Peeta's eyes lower. I can see him trying to calm himself, trying to avoid the blowout that I'm oh-so-ready to instigate. "Fine," his tone is low and defeated. "Do whatever you want."

Suddenly, I'm not very hungry.

I turn to Greasy Sae. "There's fish and squirrels in my hunting bag. I know it's not much now."

I catch Peeta's eye again and the words spill out. "I got a squirrel through the eye. Just the way your father liked it."

Snatching up the bread possessively, I storm over to Haymitch's house. He's still on the couch, twitching in his sleep. I don't wake him.

Peeta has always tolerated Haymitch, even when I haven't. What was said to change that?

The stench from the kitchen is still as potent as ever and it seems I'm Haymitch's only ally today, so I grab his broom and begin to clean the mess.

It's a good thing I have a strong stomach. If I still had my bow on me, I think I'd put an arrow in Haymitch's head for this.

I consider heading back to my house, but quickly change my mind. I'm sure the others are still lurking inside. But as I watch Haymitch deflate on his couch, I realize I don't want to be here either.

I have nowhere to go.

Walking back to the square seems like a good option until I'm about halfway there and the wasted energy from a day of hunting takes its toll. I double back.

Along the way, I see dozens of residents lugging supplies back to their homes, but I never actually see the train the goods came in on. Is it one of the old Capitol trains that was used for the Hunger Games or Victory Tour? The trains that brought Peeta and I together?

Why do I care?

Greasy Sae gives me a curt wave as she strolls home with her granddaughter, but I barely manage to smile in their general direction, lost in a haze of memories.

Back home, the kitchen is pristine. My plate is right where I left it, waiting for me to finish. It feels odd to eat alone and the food's gone cold, but I bask in the lack of human interaction. Until I hear it.

"He said you'd given up on us."

I choke a bit. It's a struggle to keep up my composure as I turn toward the archway leading out of the living room, where Peeta sits on the sofa.

"How long have you been there?" I sputter, realizing he has been watching me gouge on my breakfast for quite a few minutes.

He acts as if he never heard me. The strained look in his eyes tells me that he stayed here to speak, not to listen.

"Haymitch said Coin sent me into the Capitol to kill you," the words pierce him. "She thought I'd snap and kill you all, and you knew that even if I didn't. That's why you killed her. It was revenge for that plot."

I bite my tongue rather than correct him. It occurs to me that neither Haymitch nor Peeta know my theories on the bombs.

His voice gets shaky as he continues. "He said that you could never trust me or him, no matter what we did for you. You think I'm still out to get you and you think he's still too busy trying to keep me alive to see it. He said I should have stayed out of District Twelve."

"You had other options?" I raise my eyebrows at the revelation.

"Not many," he adds quickly. "Plutarch wanted me to do some work with him in the Capitol, maybe some public speaking. I wasn't interested."

"He also said you never really wanted to save me. You only tried in the Capitol because you had no other choice besides killing me." Peeta pauses, waiting for my response. I don't give him one, because I know how selfish I was in Thirteen after he returned to me. Maybe he's right.

Eventually, Peeta puts his hands down on his knees and pushes himself up into a standing position. He stomps toward the hall, but stops next to my game bag.

He reaches down and begins to rifle through it. His arm yanks out a squirrel by the tail- my perfect kill. "I'm taking this."

He's gone again before I can fully grasp what's just been said.

Peeta doesn't come to dinner. Nobody mentions his absence. The night provides no comfort as I think of all the ways I've let Peeta down.

Perhaps it's better off like this. Not talking. Not pretending to be friends. Just two neighbors, nodding to each other in silent passing for the rest of our lives.

It would most certainly be the better path to take.. for Peeta.

* * *

_In my dreams, Peeta is illuminated._

_His bright blond hair falls carelessly over his forehead, his eyes are a startling ice blue, and his skin is iridescent in the darkened room. It's as if he's glowing._

_I can barely make her out as I watch from the doorway. Her back is facing me, but it's obvious what she's doing._

_The faceless woman is on top of Peeta, writhing slowly as she pushes her naked flesh down on his over and over again. His eyes are open wide as he feels her skin. He's grunting with heated exasperation as she moves. The glow from his skin highlights her ample breasts and shapely curves._

_I don't know why, but I begin to inch my way closer to them. I'm unsure if I'm feeling embarrassment, rage, or jealousy when I see the fervor with which Peeta's hips jerk up to meet her movements._

_They're moving faster now. Peeta takes control. Her noises change from the occasional squeal to uncontrollable moans of pleasure. He's gasping for air, silently struggling to keep his strength up for just a few moments longer._

_I'm suddenly standing directly next to the spot where they lay on the bed. That's when he notices me._

_"Katniss?" Peeta asks confusedly. He abruptly stops moving, staring at me with the greatest concern imaginable. His eyes move to the woman he is with and I follow his gaze._

_I have just enough time to register the bright red hair of the Avox girl, Lavinia, before she plunges Haymitch's knife into my heart. She smiles at my sheer terror as the blood begins to seep down my shirt. The sound she makes is a bit off, but I'm sure it's laughter._

I wake with a start, ripping the blankets off my body as if they were on fire.

The screams echo through my house and all throughout Victor's Village, making the room pulse around me.

It takes a moment for me to realize that the screams are not my own. Equal parts haunted and curious, I tiptoe to the window of the dark bedroom.

The screams stop. The night becomes still. It's as if nothing ever happened.

I'm about to walk away from it all when a light flicks on in the distance. Peeta's house.

I watch his shadow sit unmoving in his bed for a moment. Then he stands, pacing back and forth along the edge of the bed before coming to the window.

He's facing the direction of my house, but I can't say for sure what he's looking for.

I don't know if he can see me, but with an ache I've never felt before, I hope he knows I'm here.


	2. Tribute

Before you read, I just wanted to give a huge **THANK YOU** to all of my reviewers! You guys are amazing! I promise I'll keep writing this story! However, I'm writing as I go, so it will probably be a couple weeks between each chapter. Sorry!

This chapter is a bit heavier and a bit longer than the last. I hope you still like it! Also, this is my first attempt at writing an "adult" scene, so don't flame me too much!

* * *

It's been cloudy for days now, but there's been no rain.

I stay up most nights, sitting by the window in the dark, waiting to see if Peeta's light will flick on in the wee hours of the morning. It comes on more often than not, though he wakes up screaming very rarely these nights. He comes to the window every time he's jolted awake by a nightmare. It's the only time we see each other anymore.

I've lost count of the days that have passed since Peeta confronted me. Two weeks? Perhaps three?

He's stopped showing up for mealtimes. Greasy Sae is worried enough that she begins wrapping up leftovers to bring to him.

"Would you like to do the honors?" she suggests, holding up this morning's leftover eggs and bacon.

I shake my head. "It's probably best that I don't go over there."

"But you should go somewhere, dear," she says in the gentlest of tones, as if trying not to upset me. "I haven't seen you out and about much. Perhaps a nice walk?"

Greasy Sae hasn't seen me out and about much because I _haven't_ been out and about. With my new boycott on Peeta and, even more fiercely, Haymitch, the number of people worth seeing in this district is seriously dwindling.

I haven't been hunting. My late nights cause me to sleep in much longer than intended the next morning. Usually, I wake up to the sounds of Greasy Sae tinkering about in the kitchen. I could trek into the woods now, but it just doesn't feel right without the fresh morning start.

Instead, I race up to my room and position myself low next to the window just after Sae leaves. I watch her move across Victor's Village towards Peeta's residence.

I watch as she knocks. The door swings open and he's there for only a brief moment, smiling politely and exchanging pleasantries as he takes the food.

"You've lost it," I mumble to myself as I crouch by the windowsill, watching his door shut. Knowing this, I still don't move until long after Peeta and Greasy Sae are out of sight.

It scares me a bit when the door opens again. He's leaving the house without eating, nothing but a rolled up sheet of paper in his hand.

Where could Peeta possibly have to go? Surely he goes out- he can't just sit around the house baking bread all day- but I haven't noticed him leaving or returning to his home during the past weeks. Whatever the reason, his swift movements toward the road that leads to town tell me this is something important.

Curiosity overcomes me.

As soon as I manage to change out of my pajamas and slip on my old leather boots, I'm clicking the door shut behind me as quietly as possible.

Haymitch's snores are so extreme that I can hear them as I exit my residence several houses away.

I haven't staked out and followed anyone like this before, not even during the Games. I've followed animals through the woods, but I also intended to kill them when the opportunity presented itself. This is something different.

The road between Victor's Village and the square is hopelessly barren. After a short stretch spent skirting around houses, I'm forced to walk behind Peeta as stealthily as possible and hope he doesn't feel the need to look behind him.

Thankfully, he is walking at a decent clip with no sudden glances back. As we near town, I'm able to better mask myself behind some freshly blossoming bushes and small storage sheds unevenly lining the road.

Peeta is in the middle of the square soon enough, looking every which way for something that neither of us can see.

"Doing all right?" A voice calls out in the distance. I trace it back to a recovery worker standing by the foundation of what will be the new mayor's house.

He's walking toward me. I groan at the realization that I've been discovered only moments after entering the area surrounding the square.

But then his trajectory changes slightly and he's not walking over to me, but to Peeta.

"Sorry I didn't make it down here earlier," Peeta calls out apologetically. The man waves off the apology without a word.

Peeta holds up the carefully rolled paper in his hand. "It's just a rough sketch," he says. "I really don't know how to make blueprints, but I've mapped everything out."

The pair begin walking to one end of the square. Peeta is rapidly discussing the possibility of making some changes, but the conversation is lost on me until they come to a dead stop in front of the bakery.

The partially obliterated remains of Romulus Thread's gallows still lay next to the entranceway.

Peeta describes the placements of the ovens, the height and length of the serving counter, the approximate measurements of the storage room, and all the other details that only he would remember.

"And on the other levels?" The man working alongside him asks.

"Living quarters," Peeta shrugs. "There's really no need for them."

I find myself wondering how long ago the bodies of Peeta's only relatives were extracted from the rubble that's been cleared away since the firebombing. Were all four of them scattered among the debris when I visited the bakery after The Quarter Quell?

Maybe I could have done something for them. I could have found them and given them a proper burial or at least a ritualistic sign of respect as I had Rue. Something to keep them out of that mass grave.

Unless Peeta made alternate arrangements after his return? Surely, the recovery workers let him know that they'd found his family. To this day, he's never spoken about their deaths in my presence.

I'm staring at the charred mass that was once Peeta's home and livelihood, trying to remember the original design of the archway, the number of cakes that fit into the display window. I'm struggling to remember if the small but charming dining area was painted blue or green when I hear him.

"Katniss?" My head snaps in Peeta's direction. His eyes bore into mine. "What are you doing here?"

I become completely disoriented by my surroundings.

Lost in my thoughts, I apparently started walking. Now I stand in the middle of the square, roughly twenty feet behind Peeta.

"Were you following me?" Peeta accuses as I gather my composure.

Yes. I was.

"No!" I say. "I wasn't!"

I race through my head to find a decent excuse. But thinking quickly on my feet is not my strongpoint, it's Peeta's. I look to him. I look to the recovery worker and recall his name: Bristel, another former coal miner. The pause may be too long to convince anyone, but it finally hits me.

"I'm looking for Thom!" I tell them as confidently as I can muster.

"From behind a building?"

Damn! Had he noticed me behind him the whole time? Or had he only seen me walk out just a moment ago?

Bristel is visibly struggling to hold back his amusement as he witnesses this awkward encounter.

"I was hiding," I improvise. "I thought I saw..." Mentally, I create a list of people I'd usually be displeased to see around District Twelve. I quickly realize that most of them are now dead. "Haymitch."

Peeta doesn't argue anymore, but every ounce of his body language tells me that he remains skeptical.

"We should bring this to Thom, anyway," Bristel holds up the rough map of the bakery, breaking off the staring game Peeta and I are playing. "We'll help you find him."

We cluster together in a tense trio, Bristel leading us over to the mayor's house. It takes a few questions and a lot more yelling through the area before Bristel finds Thom in the chaos.

"What's up?" Thom asks. Though the temperature isn't particularly warm this time of year, he's sweating profusely. I can't imagine how difficult it will be for the workers once summer is in full swing.

"I need you to sign off on a few changes for the new bakery before I start the paperwork," Bristel tells him.

"And Katniss needs to speak with you," Peeta adds.

The desperate moment when I realize I have nothing to speak to Thom about is upon me, but it's too late. He's already turned to me, nodding his head and giving me permission to speak.

"I want to build something," I say slowly, but I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this. "Well, not build it personally. I'm not much of a builder. More of a destroyer, really, if you think about it." A nervous laugh escapes my lips.

All three men are shooting me looks that question my sanity.

"I want to finance something to be built, eventually. Jut thought I should bring it up to you." I try to look around the square without turning my head too much, surveying the scene for whatever may need to be built.

"And what would you like to see built?" says Thom, who is still baffled by my tangent.

I look behind him at the only building that's partially redone. The mayor's house. Madge's house. I'd thought up the idea in passing, only for a brief moment in the past, but I never thought I'd say it aloud.

"A memorial. For the Undersees."

I felt it would be too brash to mention. After all, their blood was on my hands.

"For Madge, really," I correct.

I find myself looking to Peeta once again. "But the more I think about it, maybe it should just be for everyone we lost. All of us."

Peeta's eyes are locked on mine and I desperately wish I could unravel his thoughts. Thom clears his throat. I barely register the sound.

"Let me know what you have in mind," Thom suggests a bit more loudly than needed. When I look at him again, he's gesturing toward Peeta and I. "Maybe you can work on a sketch?"

Peeta nods silently, but he's not looking in my direction anymore.

I take the opportunity to escape, mumbling through awkward goodbyes to Thom and Bristel. I'm finally in the clear, but then he calls out to me.

"Wait up!" Peeta is shaking hands with Bristel and Thom, working out a good time to meet and look over official blueprints. Then he's next to me as I make my way back to Victor's Village.

"You know, it's funny," Peeta licks his lips. "When I walked by Haymitch's house, I could hear him snoring. And I mean really, obnoxiously snoring. You couldn't have been far behind. You must have heard it."

His tone is light, but the meaning behind it is not. "Funny how you thought you saw him after that."

Peeta is testing me, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction. I shrug nonchalantly, looking up ahead as if I'm eager to get home. He doesn't press the issue any further.

"I like your idea," says Peeta, his voice cracking a bit in the uncomfortable silence. "The memorial."

"Thanks."

There's a conversation that should be starting. A conversation I know I should initiate, but the words aren't forming in my mind. I can't think of a single thing I have to say to Peeta. The realization is terrifying.

By the time we enter Victor's Village, I'm stuck in a panic that I'm trying to hide from him. Back and forth, we alternate concerned glances at one another. Our eyes occasionally connect, but immediately tear apart before the moment becomes too intimate.

We're walking down the middle of the street just a couple hundred feet from our respective homes when I crack.

"Just come to dinner tonight." I try to demand it, but when I speak the words, it sounds like pleading. "Just come back."

"Do you want me there?" His questioning seems sincere, but it's not what I want to hear.

"Obviously," I bite back a bit harder than I mean to, "or I wouldn't have asked."

Peeta huffs. When I look up at him, he's smirking. "I can cook now, you know. Not like Sae, but I'm not bad."

"Then you can cook for us," I offer, some coolness returning to my voice.

The smirk leaves his face, conflict taking its place. He's breaking toward the right, toward his house. I'm still waiting for his answer in the middle of the street.

"I'll think about it."

I think I hear him sigh under his breath as he climbs up the front steps leading to his door, but he says no more. He doesn't look back.

It takes a moment before I turn around and go home. Buttercup slips out the door as I walk in, mewing in thanks.

I don't feel hopeful, but I'm not quite as hopeless.

* * *

The nightmares have been bad, but the flashbacks have been even worse.

Greasy Sae's granddaughter is sitting by the fire playing with an old doll and _Bam! _Prim is there in her medics uniform, looking in my direction as the fire envelopes her.

I muster up just enough sanity to hold back the screams. I turn away from Greasy Sae's granddaughter just as the image of Prim's flesh melting from her bones overtakes me.

I'm outside in a matter of seconds. Sae calls after me in concern, but she won't follow me. She never does in this situation.

Dry heaves wrack my body as I grip the rail to the steps, waiting for the wave of nausea and terror to pass. I've never gotten sick on the grass just below the rail, but the feeling is so real, so intense that this is the only ritual that calms my senses.

Just when I think I'm relaxed, a hand grips my shoulder, jump-starting my heart again. I snatch the hand up with my own, pull it forward and spin around to face my attacker.

But it's not an attacker. It's Peeta, looking utterly befuddled by the iron grip I've got on his wrist.

"Are you okay?"

"No," I immediately respond. "Well, yes, technically. I was just having a moment."

"A moment?"

I want to tell him. My demons are my own, but sharing them with him feels justified. Whether Peeta knows it or not, he's been sharing his demons with me almost every night.

"Prim," is all is manage to say at first. Slowly, I build upon the thought. "Sae's granddaughter was in front of the fire and I saw Prim there."

The explanation isn't much, but as Peeta's face softens, I can see it's enough. He doesn't offer any words of comfort or gather me up in his arms. He just watches me carefully, as if I may crumble to the ground at any moment. I can't decide if it makes me feel protected or angry. Perhaps both.

Eventually, Peeta's arm reaches out to the door and pushes it open.

"C'mon," he says gently.

When we enter the living room, he gestures toward the couch. I sit there alone for a few moments while he says hello to Greasy Sae and her granddaughter. He returns with a cool glass of water.

We sit on opposite ends of the couch in silence- me with my body scrunched together and the glass squeezed between both hands, Peeta hunching over his spread-out legs with his head in his hands- until Greasy Sae calls us over to eat.

Peeta practically sprints from his seat and before I've even entered the kitchen, he's got most of the fire out.

The other two are confused and angry in the smoky haze that follows, but I give a little smile in Peeta's direction.

Just when I think we've made some progress, the situation grows somber. Bar Greasy Sae's infrequent coughs as the last of the smoke filters through the windows, we are all mute at the dinner table. I want to share something. I want to share _anything_. But speaking up to everyone at this table feels more like a group therapy session than pleasant dinner conversation, so I hold back.

Peeta's gathering up dishes and cleaning them before I've even finished with my portion. When I take my last bite, he's right next to me with his hand outstretched.

"May I?"

"Yeah," I breathe out. "Sure."

He reaches right past me to my plate and turns away once again. Greasy Sae is so pleased to have her helper back that she doesn't seem to notice the tension.

I know what comes next before it even happens. Peeta is drying to his hands off next to the sink, thanking Greasy Sae for the great meal. He promises to bring apple bread, her favorite, for his next visit. Then he's saying his goodbyes, barely managing a glance in my direction before returning to his solitude.

After he's gone, I'm suddenly enraged. I want nothing more than for Greasy Sae and her granddaughter to leave. I do my best to hide my sudden hatred for their presence. It helps that I'm normally anti-social nowadays.

When they've finally left, I close every window in my house. The clouds have become exceptionally dark in the distance. It only takes me another minute to rekindle the fire, as it hasn't had much time to cool.

The fire is dangerously hot against my skin as I sit just in front of it. I'm staring into it, but it's not Prim I see this time. It's Peeta.

Peeta is on fire. His veins are burning and bursting open as trackerjacker venom convinces his body that he is about to die and nobody, especially not Katniss Everdeen, cares enough to save him. The fire rips through his limbs in the form of a constant morphling drip, designed to keep him subdued. Designed to keep him from defending himself against a girl he believes is out to kill him.

Finally, he is aflame in the Capitol square. And I know exactly how he feels, because I felt the same thing that night. I imagine that feeling spreading to every point of the body that it had missed on me: his face, his fingertips, his only decent leg.

Then I imagine him waking up alone. He waits for someone to comfort and reassure him, but the only visitors are a steady flow of doctors and nurses. When he finally sees the others again, they're voting to kill even more children and calling it justice. They're assassinating political leaders. Just as he regains his mind, they lose theirs.

He's shipped back to District Twelve. To a dead family, an empty house, nobody willing to look out for him, and a community of people who never publicly knew he'd once lost his grip on sanity. They expect him to be charming, extraordinary Peeta Mellark everyday. When he smiles at them, it's like torture.

His scars burn on. The resolution that Prim found in death, Peeta will never have.

The wave of anxiety hits me. I run outside into the rain. This time, I actually do vomit.

* * *

The thunder wakes me.

There was a steady rain bouncing off the house when I first stretched out on the sofa, but I don't remember feeling tired, let alone falling asleep.

I climb the stairs in a fog, but pause to inspect the scene outside my bedroom window before bed. The rain has transformed into a hideous, beastly storm that could only happen during the change in seasons.

Raindrops smash into the pavement and ricochet back up. Thunder rumbles louder than usual, shaking the house a bit. It's quickly followed by lightening so bright I'm momentarily blinded.

I watch in awe for a moment, then the dreary thought seeps into my brain. I haven't seen weather like this since...

Lightening strikes a tree in the forest. The cracking sound ripples through Victor's Village.

That's when his light turns on.

There's no pacing tonight. No slow, deliberate movements. Just a straight shot to the window.

Peeta's staring toward my house again. For the thousandth time in only a few weeks, I'm questioning whether or not he can make out my outline in the window, especially when the lightening illuminates our surroundings.

In another unusual twist, he's gone from the window just as quickly as he came. Typically, Peeta just stands there for minutes on end, but tonight he's turning away and then out of sight.

I only get about fifteen seconds to desperately wonder where he's gone before I see his front door swing open.

He's trekking through the rain and wind with solid determination. And he's coming toward me.

Fight or flight?

Do I confront Peeta and continue our twisted half-efforts to have a normal companionship? Or do I get into bed, tuck the covers up over my head and pretend this never happened?

I run down the stairs and open the door before he's even had a chance to knock.

He's through the doorway in an instant. It's like he knew I'd be waiting.

I survey his body quickly as I shut the door behind him. He's in the t-shirt and shorts he wore to bed. No shoes. No jacket. Dripping wet from only a few moments in the vicious storm, he's starting to shiver. Worst of all, he's looking at me expectantly, like a wounded animal looking to be put out of its misery. Will I care for him or abandon him? He's waiting for the answer.

"You're all wet," is the only response I manage.

Peeta's lips form a thin, straight line. Drops of water fall from his hair as he nods his head, but he doesn't speak. I think he's waiting for me still.

When the words don't come to mind, I resolve to make it up to Peeta through my actions.

I take Peeta's hand in mine, running my thumb across it as I say "I'll be right back." Then I'm racing up the stairs, ripping open bathroom cabinets and bedroom closets to find a soft towel and the thickest, wooliest blanket in the house.

Upon my descent, I come at Peeta full-force with the towel. He lets out a low laugh as I toss it over his head and begin scrubbing it back and forth to soak up the water on his hair and face. My relief is instantaneous.

"I've got it," he offers, but I refuse. I remove the towel from his face and wipe off each arm, Peeta repositioning his limbs as necessary. Then I move to his neck, his back, his chest over his t-shirt.

He stops me there, electing to dry off his legs himself. I wonder for a moment if he doesn't want me examining his artificial limb, but I don't dwell on it for too long.

I'm wrapping the blanket around his arms and shoulders before he stands up again.

"C'mon," I motion further into the house.

The fire is out, but the open downstairs area is still fairly warm. I sit Peeta down in the same spot on the sofa that he sat in earlier today, but this time I sit down only inches away from him. I tuck my knees up to my chest and let him get comfortable before the words come out.

"Do you ever think we'll be able to tolerate a storm again?" I ask.

"No," he admits. It's not what I want to hear, but I know it's the truth. "It's the lightening that gets me."

"Like the tree in the arena?"

He nods. He face tenses, relaxes, and tenses again. Peeta's mouth sits half-opened for a few seconds until the words spill out. "Did you know what you were doing when you shot the barrier?"

"I didn't," I say. Now it's my turn to smirk a bit. "I really, truly didn't. I only knew Beetee had been trying to do it, but the pieces didn't really come together until the arrow hit."

"I thought so," Peeta's voice is steady and strong. "That's why I told them you weren't responsible in the Capitol. If you planned it, you would have told me."

"Of course," I reassure him.

Peeta flutters the blanket out over me so we are both entrapped in its warmth.

"That wasn't the only storm we've ever been through, you know," I say. "There's been dozens of others."

Peeta snorts. "But there's only a couple we'll remember ages from now. The clock. The cave. It's like whenever lightening strikes, I'm about to die."

I know the feeling. I can tell that Peeta is more terrified by the storm than I am, but I was there too. I saw all of the things he saw in the arenas, but I can still see all of the beauty in between the terror that he's not seeing right now.

"But there were some good moments in there too," I admit. "Being it that cave with you was the safest I ever felt in the arena. It was almost normalcy."

It's not a stunning admission for most, but Peeta recognizes how hard it was for me to voice that last thought. I am finally sharing with him, feeling open and willing to speak to the boy who'd once been my reason for survival.

"I wanted to stay in that cave forever," the words come from Peeta much more easily, "though preferably without anyone trying to kill us." He looks lighthearted at first, but the look in his eyes turns to something more intense.

"I really thought you loved me when we were in the cave," he stares into my eyes as he speaks. Anxiety creeps up slowly. I'm not sure if I'm ready for this moment. "I thought you wanted to be with me."

"I did, in some ways," I try to soften the blow. My head shifts down to my knees, but Peeta's hand carefully lifts my chin, reconnecting my eyes with his.

"Not in the way I wanted. I wanted you to be mine."

The intensity in Peeta's eyes is both awe-inspiring and terrifying in the weak light. The idea hits me suddenly. Saying the words would be foolish. Reckless, even. They have the potential to ruin everything for good, but it couldn't be much worse than the past few weeks. The risk doesn't matter anymore.

"Show me," I demand.

Peeta's lips are crashing down on me as soon as the words leave my mouth. His arms are around me, pulling me close. I feel the aching hunger that I felt once in the cave, again in the clock arena, and again in the Capitol.

I'm forcing my lips against his, one hand against the nape of his neck, raking through his hair. It isn't enough. Our tongues mingle together as I pull him forward. The blanket falls as we reposition, but soon we're spread out across the couch, Peeta hovering over me.

For the first time in ages, Peeta seems strong and able as he traces his hand from my forehead, down my neck and arm to grip my waist. The simple action makes me buck up against him.

"Katniss," he sighs. In this moment, I become certain that I need to be close to Peeta more than I've needed anything in my life.

My hands move to his back, scratching my way down to the hem of his shirt. He emits a low growl when I slip my fingers underneath and begin pulling it up.

"You're all wet," I repeat for the second time tonight.

Peeta pops up on to his knees, yanking the t-shirt over his head and spiking it to the floor. Then he's on top of me again, repositioning himself so I can feel the bulge in his pants against my most sensitive area. The sound I make is between a gasp and a cry.

"I bet you are too," he snickers.

There's a sense of urgency as his hand slips up my shirt and squeezes my breast. My fingernails claw into his skin and I arch myself up into his erection. Our movements are fast and sloppy, but it's exactly what I want. I want him. No confessions, no promises. Just him.

My shirt is off along with my bra before I have time to think about it. Peeta is laying hard, deliberate kisses down my neck as his hands explore my chest and abdomen. His hand moves to the line of my pajama pants, tugging at the fabric.

"Please," I encourage him, lifting my hips to grant him better access. The rest of my clothing is stripped off in an instant.

I feel a bit self-conscious as his eyes feast upon the sight of my bare body, but I let Peeta have his moment. I take the opportunity kiss every inch of his bare upper body I can reach. When I get impatient, I wrap my legs around him and coax him toward me.

Without warning, Peeta plunges a finger into me. I scream out in surprise. I lift my head up and pull Peeta's down until we meet in a kiss. His finger begins pumping in and out and I thrust up to meet it.

My throat releases excited little squeaks and he groans in repsonse. The motions make me delirious with want. I need him to know just how much I enjoy it.

"Don't stop, Peeta," I beg him as I shift slightly. I reach down between us, slipping my hand under his soaked shorts until I've got a hold on his penis. I move slowly, a bit unsure about what I'm doing.

"Fuck," Peeta cries out.

He loses control for only a second, his head bowing as his body adjusts to the sensation. Then he's plunging a second finger into me, moving them even faster, begging me to move my hand faster as well.

The sensation building inside of me is something I've experienced, but never at the level of intensity. It's something I only experience with Peeta. I begin whimpering as the two of us move erratically, trying to keep control.

It's not enough.

"More," I squeal. I look at Peeta and I can tell he doesn't know how to react. "Please, more."

In mere seconds, I tug at his shorts until they are around his knees. I reach up and pull him as close to me as I can. I take his hand by the wrist and stop his delicious movements, then move my own hand back to his erection.

"I want all of you."

He moves his tip to my entrance, slowly teasing me by pressing it ever so slightly into the wetness that pools there. I moan wildly in need, nodding my head, silently asking him to make me his.

Peeta doesn't think twice before completely sheathing himself inside of me. At first, I'm overtaken by the extreme discomfort. My face contorts and Peeta yelps, realizing what he's done. He goes to pull away, but I clutch him tight and hold him inside of me.

"I need this," I beg him. "Don't leave me. I need you."

He kisses me roughly in an attempt to make up for his actions. Subconsciously, he begins to squirm. Instead of feeling pain, the pleasure that had nearly taken over my body earlier returns. I lift and lower my hips against him.

He gives me a devilish look, then thrusts once, twice, three times. He's trying to be careful. I want to throw his caution to the wind.

I scratch my fingernails along his chest and put my mouth close to his ear. "Take me, Peeta. Like you mean it."

Suddenly, Peeta is in a frenzy. He's slamming into me in earnest, the sound of skin against skin filling the night air. He's gripping the couch as if he was holding on for dear life, sweat accumulating all over both our bodies.

"Faster," I plead, though I don't really think he could go any faster or harder than he does now. He responds by grabbing at my chest once again, rolling and pinching my nipples in between his fingertips.

The feeling inside me is the sweetest of all tortures. I can feel at building up, but I need the ache to subside. All the while, he's watching me intently, offering me all he's got to give. It doesn't take long before I'm losing control.

"Oh!" I cry out when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. Then I'm whispering to him. "Make me come, Peeta. Please make me come."

I'm confused when he reaches a hand down between us. Then I feel it. Peeta's thumb is pressing against my nub, moving in small circles. My pleasure is doubled in an instant.

"I think..."

My breath hitches in my chest. I can feel every muscle in my body tightening. My bottom half is raised up off the couch as I hit my peak. It's as if the world is ending and beginning all at once.

I never knew I could feel like this. I've never felt so alive.

As the aftershocks wrack my body, I turn my attention back to Peeta. I kiss and clutch every inch of him possible, praising him.

His hips begin jerking wildly. He stutters out an odd noise and his mouth falls open. His arms go limp, putting his full weight on top of me as his orgasm crashes over him.

He lays his forehead on top of mine. All I can feel is skin and sweat and pure bliss.

"Thank you," he says once he catches his breath. "Thank you for letting me show you."


	3. Friend

And we're back! Sorry for the longer than usual intermission between chapters! Hopefully, the gap between chapters three and four will be a little shorter!

For those of you who asked, I have outlined eight more chapters for this story. Never fear, we're nowhere near the end yet! ;-)

I want to thank all of my reviewers once again for your feedback! I got some constructive criticism where there could have been flames, so I appreciate your kind honesty. This chapter deals with a lot of confused flip-flopping of emotions that was at times difficult to write, but I hope you can all appreciate the end product!

* * *

I can't bring myself to open my eyes right now.

I've been awake for more than a few minutes, but a fresh memory keeps replaying in my head, stirring up a new type of horror within me. When I open my eyes, the scene in front of me will confirm it and never let me forget, haunting me both day and night.

I don't remember how it even happened. I know Peeta had come to me during the storm. I was content he was here, speaking to me once again. But the conversation turned into something much more serious than I'd imagined in such a short amount of time. He was professing his feelings once again, something I could never do.

I do care for Peeta though, in new, different ways than I've ever cared for anyone in my life. He knows that now. I just wish I'd found a better way to express it.

An enormous knot of shame and fear twists in my stomach as I finally pull apart my eyelids, waiting for the blow. The tension is worse than ever.

But when I look around, I'm alone. I don't remember coming up to my bedroom, but I'm in safely beneath the covers in my pajamas. The room is just as I'd left it. My other senses open up and I can hear Greasy Sae tinkering about in the kitchen.

I'm starting to consider the possibility that it was all dream until I shift to sit up. The discomfort is immediate. It's not blinding pain as it was before, but I'd feel more comfortable if I have didn't move for the rest of the morning.

Other subtle signs of disruption become evident. Sheets on the others side of the bed are flipped over, as if someone's come out from underneath them. The window blinds have been pulled up. The movement downstairs travels across a few rooms and then up the stairs. It's something Greasy Sae would never do.

He stops dead in the doorway with a plate of food in hand, surprised to see me awake. I'm trying my best not to look mortified, but it's too obvious to keep completely hidden. He steps his good foot backwards and pivots slightly, perhaps considering a quick sidestep out of my sight. He changes his mind. His eyes turn to meet mine and he's facing me once again.

"I told Sae you were really sick and she shouldn't expose herself to it," says Peeta as he begins to walk swiftly to my side. He places the plate on my bedside table and stands stiffly, one hand in each of his pants pockets. "I told her I'd take care of you for a few days."

Apparently disregarding what he'd just said, Peeta begins walking away just as quickly as he came. "I left you some bread downstairs," he says over his shoulder.

"So you're just leaving?" I yell after him as he passes through my doorway. "Is that how it's going to be then?"

Peeta spins around, using one arm to brace himself against the doorway. The stolid façade that covered his face just a moment ago is gone. A look of lingering sadness replaces it.

"I thought you'd want to be alone."

In a lot of ways, I do want to be alone. But I've been laying here for what feels like ages, building up a speech, calculating just the right words to let Peeta down gently as he confessed his love for me. Instead, Peeta is standing there, trying to let me down gently. I honestly didn't see it coming.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that," he says, cutting through the heavy silence between us.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I shoot back. The anger is boiling within my chest, but I try to hold it back for just a bit longer.

Peeta pulls his hand through his disheveled hair then shakily points it toward me in accusation.

"You can't sit there and tell me you're happy about that."

His head falls in shame. "It's like I don't even know what happened," he says. "I just wanted to know that you wanted me around, that a part of you still wants to be with me. I was so desperate to know for sure." Peeta slowly begins walking to the end of the bed. "But I promise you, it wasn't supposed to happen like that."

"But it was supposed to happen," I accuse. My guilt has morphed into rage and I imagine a different side of Peeta I haven't seen much outside the arena: The boy with a manipulative plan to get whatever he wants.

"What? No!"

"You thought you'd just come over in a storm, get cozy, and not bother to come near me? Or did you think you'd just try your hand at ravishing me until I eventually stopped you?"

I know I'm being vicious, but I don't care. Peeta deserves every bit of it. I think briefly of the need I too felt, but push the feeling away just as quickly as it came.

"I just wanted to talk to you," Peeta's voice has gone breathy, as if he's choking on something. I think he's pleading with me. "I swear to you I never had any other sort of motive behind it."

I'm starting to believe him, but part of me can't let it go.

"I don't know," I continue. "You sure seemed to know what you were doing."

Peeta's eyebrows perk up and he stares at me in disbelief. "Everyone knows about sex, Katniss. Don't act like you've never been exposed to it. That doesn't make it firsthand experience. When do you think I could have possibly done that before?"

He's right, of course. We've all heard about it, sometimes more vividly than we'd like. We've seen the images too. Especially Peeta and I because of our stay in the Capitol, where sex is celebrated as sport and unashamedly advertised.

But I can't let it go yet. "You thought it through," I further accuse.

Peeta has calmed significantly. Without my permission, he moves to the other side of the bed and sits on the very edge.

"I won't pretend I've never thought about being with you," he admits, "but it was supposed to be something special, not some pathetic attempt to make you love me. It was supposed to feel right."

Peeta's ability to speak with unparalleled honesty stings me. I pity him. I'm spitting hate at him, accusing him of luring me into his arms through deceit, yet he's still telling me he loves me in his roundabout way. Surely another girl- any other girl- could learn to appreciate his heart and treat him better. Meanwhile, I find myself selfishly frustrated with his confessions.

"We're not even friends, Peeta," I moan as guilt begins to overrun me. "You don't even talk to me."

"You don't talk to me, either."

"Fine. We don't talk to each other," I concede. "That's the most basic stepping stone for a friendship and we don't even do that. How are we supposed to have any other sort of relationship?"

Peeta considers it for a long moment. Conflict reads all over his face, but I think we're both too torn apart to keep up the fight.

"Alright," he says, moving to his feet once again. "Let's be friends."

I nod automatically, but a memory is coming into full bloom in the back of my mind of the last time Peeta and I tried to be friends, between Victory Tour and the Quarter Quell. Our arrangement had crossed the boundaries of friendship at many points, but not at our new level of recklessness. Part of me wouldn't mind going back to that old friendship.

"You should grab yourself some food," I suggest, trying to bridge the gap between those comforting memories and now.

"I already ate. I've been up for hours. My brain's forever on a baker's schedule," he smiles. I reciprocate with a weak laugh even though his joke doesn't truly reach me.

His voice gets serious. "I really do have to head home, though. I've got some things I want to get done." His lack of specifics makes me doubt him, but I don't argue.

Before disappearing from sight, he swings around one more time and adds as cheerily as possible "I'll cook you dinner, though!"

"I'll see you then," I reply with not nearly enough enthusiasm.

There's a dull ache in my body that lingers throughout the day, more akin to dread than pain. I can't help but run every possible outcome of my actions through my head over and over. Each scenario is worse than the previous. I can see no good coming of our friendship, but I refuse to leave our shared scars unattended. We have to do something to change it all.

It takes a great deal of persuasion to force myself to eat, then another internal battle to get up and shower. The physical discomfort comes and goes, but I very rarely leave the couch once I'm downstairs. I explore the television for the first time in ages and realize that Plutarch Heavensbee has been steadily making improvements. The singing show he'd mentioned to me on the trip back to District Twelve is on the air, though it's clear that the featured performers are mostly amateurs.

Peeta shows up a bit earlier than usual, but takes longer to cook than Greasy Sae would. He's very secretive about the small bag of food he's got with him and he insists I relax in front of the television until the meal is done. When it finally finishes, he's rushing me into the kitchen with a wicked grin on his face.

Whatever he's made, the smell entices me. He watches as I take a seat and examine the dish. When my eyes focus in on the dried plums, a smile creeps across my lips.

"I couldn't get any lamb, so I substituted it with rabbit," he says, "But I think it'll still be good!"

I've come to associate this lamb stew with my time in the Capitol, but it's refreshing to see Peeta in a pleasantly optimistic mood again so I eat up without hesitation. The dried plums and cream sauce practically melt in my mouth.

"It's really good," I praise him. "You can barely taste the difference."

"I thought you'd like it."

The guilt throbs a little harder knowing that Peeta's been relating things as trivial as dinner to me. If he's trying this hard to be my friend, I should at least try to do the same for him. I make an extra effort to start conversation, but I'm not too spectacular with it. We discuss Haymitch becoming a hermit, whether or not Greasy Sae's being paid to care for us, and other issues that don't affect our lives much. It's better than nothing.

I wash the dishes, but Peeta waits by my side to dry them.

"We should get working on that memorial soon," he mentions casually as we finish up. "We could show them our ideas next week. Bristel's giving me the final blueprints for the bakery then."

I know it's not my business, but curiosity gets the best of me.

"Why didn't you tell anyone you were rebuilding it, Peeta?"

He shrugs. "I didn't think anyone else would care. I like the work, but I can't keep doing it out of my house. Technically, the property's mine now, so I might as well use it."

"Was your family inside? Did you get them out?" I know the questions were a little too much right after I ask them because Peeta suddenly looks lost to the world.

"I'm sorry," I try to wave it off.

"No, it's fine," Peeta finally says. "They were inside. So were a lot of customers. They weren't able to identify who was who, so I decided they should all go into the Meadow. Together."

I'm trying not to get emotional. There's a time and place for such things and this isn't it. We're in a similar situation, Peeta and I. The bodies of my father and Prim were never recovered and given a proper burial. At least Peeta has the meadow.

"We should work on the memorial right now," I burst out. "Just stay and we'll do that tonight."

Peeta nods, still a bit detached from the world around him. I give some time alone while I scrounge up the last bits of paper and art supplies that Peeta left here before the Quell. He might have better supplies at his house, but he doesn't complain when I place these on the table.

"What did you want it to look like?" he asks after settling in again.

"I hadn't thought of it much. I'm not much of an architect."

He sighs, then stares at the blank paper intently, waiting for it to reveal the answers to him. The pause is drawn out and my ears start to buzz. I'm trying to think of a natural way to break the silence when he speaks.

"I need your Mockingjay pin."

"I don't have it." The realization comes with a bit of shock. For the first time since it all began, I have no idea where the country's symbol of hope had gone. "They took it from me in the Capitol."

Though I hadn't thought of its absence before, now that I'm aware I crave the ability to hold Madge's last gift to me between my fingers once again. It was mine. What right did they have to take it?

"It's not gone for good," Peeta says confidently after reading the worry in my eyes. "They've got it somewhere and they'll hand it over."

"You want the memorial to be my pin?"

"Not entirely. I just think it should be incorporated in there." The pencil in his hand touches paper and his first vision comes to life before me.

As the night goes on, Peeta renders several different possibilities for the memorial. The sketches are rough, but most include a circle representing the Mockingjay pin. He's a better painter than sketch artist, but his ideas are more meaningful than anything I could imagine.

In the end, we fan them all out across the table and choose our favorites, narrowing down the basic elements we're looking for. In the back of my mind, I'm struck by how normal it feels to make plans alongside Peeta. I could have never done this a week ago. Perhaps there is hope for our friendship.

"I think that covers it," Peeta says as he gathers the most promising sketches. "We can work on it some more tomorrow, if you want."

He's leaning over the table, looking up at me through the thin veil of his shaggy blond hair. I give him a smile, but my cheer is fading. It's late and I know he's getting ready to leave again.

As he crosses the kitchen and heads toward the archway, I call after him.

"You don't have to go, you know." I feel immensely stupid as soon as the words leave my lips. Even I don't know what I'm trying to do here.

Frustration flashes across Peeta's face. "I thought we were just friends?"

With one sentence, I've sent our fragile relationship spinning. I've got to gain control of the situation if I want this to continue. I erase my face of all emotion and nod stiffly.

"We are," I say in a matter-of-fact voice. "But we kept each other company at night when we were friends before. I thought you'd like to stay since you usually come back in the morning anyway, but you're welcome to leave."

"Fine," he says. I'm not sure if that means he'll stay or go. He's moving down the hall and I do my best to follow him and still seem non-committal about the issue.

It's the longest trip I've ever taken down the hallway. I'm about to ask him to clarify when he reaches the end of the hallway and turns away from the door. He climbs up the first two steps before looking back at me.

"Shouldn't you lock the door?" he suggests.

I head upstairs just a few moments later. Peeta leaves the room while I change. We peel back the sheets and lay carefully on our designated sides of the bed without touching. Still, the heat from his body keeps me warm and I'm happy to know I'm not alone.

His voice breaks through the silent lull that almost overcomes us as we drift to sleep.

"Hey Katniss?"

"Yeah?"

"Happy birthday."

My eighteenth birthday. I knew it was spring, but I haven't been privy to the date in quite some time. It's odd to know that in a different world, I'd be celebrating this day with feverish joy. All things considered, tonight's alternative isn't all that bad.

I know that I got to spend it with a friend.

"Thanks," is all I say to him.

About a week later, when Peeta's informed Greasy Sae that I've fought off my imaginary illness, he fashions me a cake. Sae comes over with her granddaughter and, much to my surprise, Haymitch.

It's an awkward, watered down version of a birthday dinner yet I can't complain. It's an odd cluster of relationships, but I owe my life to the people at this table.

We develop a pattern over the next few weeks. Peeta and I eat breakfast, then part ways. I become a mid-morning hunter, slowly working my way back into to my once great skills.

I reset the old snare line I once developed with Gale. I'm no longer sharing it with the Hawthornes, but I always try to give some of the haul away. The few children that have returned to District Twelve aren't starving, but that doesn't mean there isn't any struggle. There's still very few jobs here and most others must use up their food rations strategically.

Peeta bakes and works on the development of the new bakery. He's struck up some sort of deal with Greasy Sae again, because now she's only an occasional dinner guest. I bring him the meat and he experiments with new ways to cook it, giving me tips along the way. At times his techniques are unsuccessful, leaving us with chunks of charred woodchuck and bitter squirrel stew. I try to learn to laugh about it.

Every night, we are together. We work on the memorial until it's time to hand the plans over to Thom. After that, we learn to spend our nights like most other citizens of Panem. We play chess, though I'm not very good. We become fans of Plutarch's new show exploring the different cultural traditions of each district. We check in on Haymitch.

Dr. Aurelis calls my house to speak to both of us. I finally have things I can discuss with him like the memorial, progress in the district, and the daily routine I share with Peeta. Yet I sense his passive aggression when I refuse to discuss his favorite subjects: my mother, the war, hate, dead friends, Gale, and forgiveness. I honestly feel I'm better when I forget these elements of my life.

One night, Peeta suggests we work on my family book. There were several entries we'd meant to add in before the Quarter Quell bore down upon us and now the once impossible time that we needed to finish is upon us. It's relaxing, therapeutic even, to finally see it through with him.

"I need another book like this," I think aloud softly as we add in the latest entry one summer night.

Peeta looks up from his painting quizzically. "Like a duplicate?" He twists his wrist, cracking the bones within. I see him imagining the work it would take to copy the thick book.

"No, I different type of book," I explain. "A book of people."

The idea has struck me rather quickly, but I'm now intent on getting it done. We both pause to consider it.

"I'm forgetting too," Peeta admits even though I have yet to do so myself. "I know the names but I can't remember much of the faces."

We talk a little about the idea before heading off to bed together as we do every night. Tonight, all of my loved ones are faceless and screaming in my nightmares. When I'm jolted awake in terror, Peeta brings me a mug of hot cider. I fall back to sleep with my head on his chest, clinging to my only friend.

* * *

Peeta clutches his drink tightly, his usually young, bright face replaced by that of a much older man. I know it's the look he gets when lost in memories that he'd rather not relive.

He's been weary all morning. So weary, in fact, that I took over cooking breakfast after he burned the first few strips of bacon. I don't cook, thus our breakfast has become an especially bleak affair.

"This isn't a big deal, Peeta," I tell him. I know it's not what he wants to hear in the midst of his flashbacks, but someone needs to bring him back to reality. "You told them you wanted the bakery built. You gave them the plans to get it done."

"I know," he replies, still in deep thought. My frustration toward his sentimental fears triples.

"It's not like it's done, anyway," I continue with a bit more bite in my voice. "It's just a walkthrough. They've barely got the structure up."

"_I know._"

And suddenly, Peeta is back. He's glaring at me, but he's back.

"Then what are you fussing over?"

"I'm not fussing," he insists. "It's just a big deal to me, that's all."

I nibble at a piece of bacon and realize it's far too chewy for my liking. "You bake all the time. I don't see how this is any different."

"Anyone can bake," Peeta begins, but I cut him off with a stern look. "Okay, not anyone. Most people can. But the bakery and the whole business end of it was part of my family. I wouldn't have even gotten it if-"

If his older brothers weren't killed in a firebombing.

I nod before he has to finish the sentence.

Sometimes, it's hard to find sympathy for Peeta. He's been given a great opportunity to remember his family and do something he loves all rolled up in one, but he approaches it with pure dread.

I'm trying to find the best way to express it. The words have finally come together and start bubbling up my throat. A noise squeaks out, but it's quickly and concisely cut off by yelling in the distance.

Peeta's head perks up as well. Curiosity gets the best of him and he strolls out of the kitchen into the living room, where he begins to peer through the windows.

I can't make out every word, but there's only one person who could be screaming out such vile filth at this hour.

"What's Haymitch even doing awake?" I ask.

"Bleeding, apparently," Peeta responds, his face a mixture of concern and disgust.

The look does not leave his face as we both leave the house and cut through the yard onto Haymitch's property. The old man is a bit of a nocturne these days, so Peeta and I have gotten in the habit of visiting after supper when he's just waking up to start his night. I've no idea what's kept him up into the morning.

Haymitch's body is covered in odd blood splatters and dirt. He's hollering at the ground like a man unhinged until he sees us. He staggers a few steps toward us as we approach.

"You!" He points a finger at me accusingly, then flings it back toward the spot that's made him unstable. "Get this!"

We're only a few feet away when I make out the sight. The blood is not Haymitch's, but that of a goose that now lies dead on the ground. Next to it, the murder weapon: an old, rusted shovel also caked in blood and dirt.

"What the hell were you doing?" Peeta asks Haymitch, though his voice contains very little surprise that Haymitch would do such a thing.

"Yardwork!" Haymitch grumbles. Even outdoors, the smell of white liquor from his breath overwhelms me. "The damn thing scared the hell out of me."

"I think you scared it too, Haymitch."

Haymitch leans in and whispers harshly, as if telling the tale of a great conspiracy. "I think they've been living on my property. That one came right up behind me. I felt something grab me from behind, so I turned and hit it."

It's clear that he'd hit the bird more than once, but I don't dare bring it up.

"Stupid bastard," he hisses toward it once again.

Peeta shakes the oddity of the situation off first. "Let's just get rid of it."

I lean forward and gather it up by the feet. Haymitch has damaged some of the best meat, but with careful preparation it could be used for a decent stew.

"We're not eating it," Haymitch protests before I've even mentioned it. He points several yards away at something I didn't notice before. "Not in front of the children."

In the distance, barely visible in the tall grass and dead leaves covering his yard, four goslings waddle precariously. I wonder if they can comprehend what's happened to their mother.

It seems silly not to eat a perfectly good goose, but Haymitch is insistent we leave it be. Peeta and I watch as he regains control of the shovel, once his weapon of choice, and digs a shallow grave in the empty flower beds at the back of his house.

When he's done, I tell him "I'll take the little ones down to the lake later on."

"You think I can't manage to bring a few goslings back into the woods?" he responds, acting like I'd handed him a great insult. "I'll do it myself."

Peeta, who is no longer wrapped in his own thoughts, grabs the shovel from him. "You should get some sleep, Haymitch."

"Excuse me?" Haymitch stabs a finger into Peeta's chest. He's still drunk as can be, but he's melted back down to his normal level of drunkenness at which he can almost control himself. "I'm responsible for you, not the other way around. I will do whatever I damn well please."

To drive in the point, he walks over to Peeta and claps a hand on his shoulder.

"I've got to visit Ripper down at The Hob," he tells us.

"You can come with us then," Peeta says. "Katniss and I were just going to visit the new bakery."

I shoot him a stern glance. "I don't remember saying I'd go-"

"I was just about to ask with to come with me before we came outside," Peeta's teeth are clenched. He looks desperately at Haymitch, who is trying to wipe his bloody hands off on his bloody jeans, then back to me. He's silently pleading with his eyes.

"Fine!" I grumble, thinking of my half-eaten breakfast and scrapped plans for the day.

We manage to convince Haymitch to change, but he still looks ragged as ever to we make our way toward the square in silence. It's become harder just to talk with Haymitch these days. With no more talk of the games or rebellion and no interest in day-to-day life, everyone else in District Twelve finds themselves discussing either the past or the future. Haymitch sees no reason to discuss either.

He parts with us just as we're about to enter the square, heading toward the entrance of the abandoned coal mines. Just next to it stands the fledging upstart of the new Hob, which few people find exciting now that's it's not considered illegal. With the shops in town still in pieces, it's the only place to go.

The bakery comes into view across the square. Bristel is waiting outside. I synchronize myself to Peeta's pace. A slow, steady death march toward his former home.

"Did you really want me to come with you?" I ask.

Peeta takes a deep breath and shrugs non-committally. "You don't have to. I was just saying that so I didn't have to go alone with Haymitch." His eyebrows knit together and after a pause, he adds, "But you're always welcome to come in."

I hold back the sigh. He says I don't have to, but I can. I feel like it's a test. If I give the wrong answer, I fail him.

"I'm kind of interested to see what it looks like, if that's okay." I know better. I know that even when his life is on the line, he's never asked me to help him through anything, to delve into his darkest feelings along with him.

Bristel is dangling the key out in Peeta's direction long before we're close enough to reach it. As Peeta unlocks the door, his hand clutches the key unnaturally tight.

It really is too early on to make much of it. The floor is unfinished and the walls are white. There's a serving counter, but no glass displays installed. Gaps in the wall have pipes sticking out in places where sinks will later be added. Only the oven is complete finished, waiting to be christened.

"Since there's no staircase in this floor plan, we were able to give you a little more room in the back," Bristel says with pride.

I watch Peeta as his whole head wheels around the room, looking from floor to ceiling, over a few feet and back down to the floor again. He does this around the whole front area for almost a minute before anyone speaks again.

"It shouldn't take more than a month now," Bristel says. He points to a far wall. "We just need a few tiny specifics. Like what color paint-"

"Green," Peeta interrupts as if he couldn't hold it in any longer. "It used to be light green in here."

It's then that Bristel realizes Peeta is stuck in his old memories. He looks at me wearily, pulling his mouth to one side in an awkward grimace. "Okay, that's fine. I'm just going to step outside. Just let me know later how you want the other rooms painted."

And then I am alone with Peeta and his thoughts. He quickly pops his head into the soon-to-be prep and storage rooms, but comes back and continues to endlessly inspect the storefront.

"It looks really great," I finally comment. "Just like it used to."

He looks in my direction, but he doesn't acknowledge me. His eyes are empty. I notice heavy bags under them that I hadn't seen before.

I let out a small yell when he stops and collapses with his head on the counter, gripping to its edge for dear life. He lets out a strangled grunt and grits his teeth, one cheek flat against the countertop.

"Not now." I barely hear the words escape his lips as he's overtaken by his demons.

I rush over to him, but pause just inches away from his skin. Is it safe to touch him? Will he think he's being attacked?

Instead, I angle my body carefully against the counter, laying my face flat just inches away from his. He grunts and flails. Eventually, his tears are streaming down. I wonder what flashback is filling his mind. Or perhaps it's a vision brought on by hijacking?

"Not real, Peeta," I say, not sure whether it's really a flashback or implanted scenario. "Not real."

It seems to calm him, though he's still visibly shaken. Slowly, the cries end. His breathing steadies. His face relaxes.

The pure self-loathing that consumes me comes out of nowhere as I begin to count all of the times that I've faulted Peeta for his unsteady will, from his first day back after the hijacking to just this morning. I can't help but ask myself why. Didn't I care that he was suffering just like me?

The answer is simple: I've always known, I've just been too selfish to care. He's always comforted me when doubt and fear overtook me, but he never even wakes me up when he has nightmares. If he did, I probably would have brushed him off. I wonder if these incidents are what happens when he's alone during the day.

When I feel safe enough to do so, I brush my fingertips down along the side of his face, tucking some hair behind his ear as I do. He doesn't respond.

It feels like a century has gone by before his eyes open. We're still both positioned with one cheek on the countertop, facing each other with trepidation.

"I'm sorry," he croaks.

I try to shush him in a way that's soothing but it comes out shaky. I wait until he stands up straight before doing so myself. I analyze and reanalyze the situation as we stare at each other cautiously.

I remember what it's like to feel insane, maybe to _be_ insane. I want Peeta to know he's so much more than those feelings. My self-loathing mixes with something far past desire: a genuine need to make Peeta feel safe with me.

I hold out my arms to him and he's collapsing once again, this time into me. He nestles his head into the crook of his neck and breathes me in deeply. I hold him as closely as I can, calling on every ounce of the little maternal instinct I have to calm him.

"It's not your fault," I tell him as I rub his back. "I promise it's not your fault."

I feel his head move against me, but he doesn't speak. His fingers find the end of my braid and begin to fiddle with my hair, twirling it in a way that brings a little peace to both of us.

"Bristel's probably wondering what the hell is going on in here," Peeta eventually chuckles.

"Let him wonder."

Peeta's grip is loosening, but I'm not ready to let go. When he starts to slide his arms away, I catch his wrists in my hands and do my best to look him in the eye. For the first time I can remember, I feel certain.

"I don't want to be friends, Peeta."

His reaction isn't coming out right. Where I expect to see understanding and delight, I see anger, fear, and a pout spreading across his face. I haven't earned his acceptance yet.

"I know what I said before," I say, "but things have changed since then. I think we should try to make something of this."

I give his wrists a slight squeeze and try to stop myself from shaking. The vulnerability is agony and I'm half-tempted to take back the truths I've just spilt to get rid of the churning in my gut.

His face softens, but the questions linger. "What are we supposed to do, then?"

"What we always do," I reply. I want to give a better explanation, but nothing comes to mind.

A little smile crosses his lips and I think of another thing we should do.

I kiss his lips gently, letting go of his wrists in favor of gripping his shoulders securely. His hands fall to my waist and he presses his lips back into mine. My heart races so loudly, I'm afraid he can hear it. I know that this is what kissing Peeta should have always felt like.

"And that," I add when we finally pull away.

"And that," he repeats amusedly.

We leave the bakery as discreetly as possible and walk back to Victor's Village. We barely make it through my front door before we're kissing again.

I'm gripping his back and he's clutching my side as we lean against the door, rubbing against each other dangerously. Peeta kisses down my neck and I let out a little shutter that stops him dead.

"Not now," he says. When his head moves away from me, he wears a sour face. "Let's just relax right now."

"I wasn't even thinking about that!" I scold him. Then again, I wasn't thinking about it when it happened, either. "I just want to be close to you."

"Later," he promises.

I recognize the strange limbo we're in. Peeta and I have been here so many times before. We're certainly not friends, but we're not quite lovers either. We're just together.

But this time I promise myself things will be different.

I don't know what Peeta plans for us, but he's not the only one making plans.


	4. Ally

Welcome to another chapter! The holiday season chewed me up and just recently spit me out. Thank you for your ongoing support and I apologize profusely to anyone who assumed I had given up on this fic! I promise to see it through to the end. I plan on relaxing for the rest of the day and getting straight to work on the next chapter tomorrow!

I cut this chapter down a bit from my original outline to ensure it's not too much to sit and read in one go. No important details were left out, I promise! This is another emotionally-charged chapter but I promise that the next few chapters will have some more excitement to them!

* * *

A collective breath of excitement emits from the bystanders around me on the platform. The train is rolling in ever so slowly but not yet coming to a stop. It's still early, but plenty of residents are here and anxious, either expectant of their new food rations or waiting on a special package.

Before the war, a train from the Capitol meant the loss of children to the reaping or their return in a small wooden box. For a brief time, it meant Peacekeepers coming in to suffocate the district.

Now, the train has developed a new meaning. At the very least, it means everyone can expect a decent meal tonight. Some receive medicines from the Capitol or correspondence from friends in District Thirteen. Somehow, it's become one of the few things that the people of this district can rely on.

Dr. Aurelis stressed the importance of Peeta and I being present when the train arrives. I almost didn't come, though, because the disillusioned doctor seemed to believe that our goods would be stolen if we didn't claim them right away. How could he think so little of my people? Despite all that's happened, elitism is still alive and well in the Capitol.

We end up somewhere in the middle of the line, but it doesn't move very quickly. The train attendants are careful to tick off each name on a giant list of residents and watch each one as they gather their packages.

"How were you able to get my rations off the last train?" I ask Peeta skeptically.

"I asked," he shrugs. "They didn't seem so worried about it at the time."

Perhaps theft _is_ common in the other districts. A quick, horrible flash of riots and looting in larger districts cross my mind. But we've got a national news station now. Wouldn't they cover such events?

"What's with all the security?" I ask the first train attendant we come across as another searches for our goods.

He ticks Peeta and I off his list without asking for names, giving me an uneasy look as he does so. I sometimes forget that in the eyes of the nation, I've been portrayed as a lunatic, a once great hero fallen from grace.

"There have been a few incidents," he says shakily. "People like to get their hands on rare gifts and supplies, even if they aren't meant for them."

I try not to look up at the man anymore. When we receive our packages, Peeta wishes him well and we walk away. We're only a few feet away when I hear Peeta begin to snicker.

"What?" I snap.

"Look at you!" A foolish grin spreads across his face as he teases me. "You're infamous! You'll kill them all with one glance!"

"It's not funny," I reply, giving him a glance that just might kill everyone in sight. He chuckles again.

I want to find the humor in it, but there's none to be found. I don't understand how he can laugh about it. Perhaps it's easier for him because nobody thinks he's an insane danger to society.

For a moment, my envy becomes so great that I consider lashing out at him, letting him know just how it feels to have all the world turn its back to you. He thinks he knows, but he doesn't. I want to make him feel it. The hurt. The anger. The everlasting shame.

Something in my mind ticks, turning a mirror toward my current state of mind. What has gone awry inside me, making me want to hurt the one person who has stood by me? I strengthen my resolve. I work to calm my breathing and look away from him until the moment passes.

"I wonder what he was able to get us." I force myself back into friendly conversation. I find that giving myself little tasks helps to calm my emotions. The project at hand should suffice.

"Probably not everything we need," Peeta admits, "but we can ask around."

I know what's inside the boxes we carry. The one in my arms is much lighter than expected, especially considering that the material inside will be so emotionally heavy for us. But I asked for this and I have to force myself to face its contents.

When we finally reach my home in Victor's Village, I'm starting to change my mind. I don't think I can handle all we'll find inside.

"We can always start this another day," I suggest to Peeta, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Why?" His befuddlement reads on his face. "We've got nothing else to do today. Getting started is no problem."

Peeta isn't getting my point, building my unease to a new height. Is it just me? Does he have nothing to be afraid of?

"There's a lot of memories in here that we really don't need to relive, that's all," I say.

He huffs dramatically. "Well we don't need this stuff to relive anything," he quips. "We've done that plenty without any help."

He holds the boxes in his hands up a little higher than usual for an extra second and I think of his debilitating flashbacks that break him down both physically and mentally. They don't occur frequently, but when they do it's almost too much to witness. He sometimes yells during them and I gather enough information to set the scene: where he is, who he's battling, who's there with him, and the always brutal outcome. I'm silently thankful for my nightmares, which reveal very little of my thoughts and emotions. They end with me waking in a panic that Peeta can't quite decipher. I tell him what I see, but there's been plenty of times that I've kept certain details to myself.

"Plus, there's a lot of things that I kind of miss in here," he says, "in one way or another."

I don't understand how could Peeta be so sentimental about the past. There are those I want to remember, of course. That's why I'm doing this. But we met these people under the most horrific of circumstances. To say I miss it all would be far too strong.

Upon entering the house, we bring everything to the kitchen table. It's the same place we worked on the memorial. It only makes sense that we'd work on this here as well.

For a moment, we step back and just stare at the boxes ominously. Fear creeps over me as I think of all the different ways I may react to what lays inside. Peeta makes the first move to open a box and I follow suit, a steely expression locked on my face.

"This is fantastic," Peeta breathes. There's brushes, pencils, paints and pastels just waiting to be used. He examines them wistfully, like a young child who's just received a shiny new toy.

My box is different. I understand now why it was so light by comparison, but its contents are much more disturbing. Ever so neatly preserved and arranged in plastic casings, I stare at them and they stare back at me.

Photos, photos, and more photos. Some are of the living. Most are of the dead.

The first several layers seem to be pocket-sized head and shoulder shots of tributes taken during the interview portion of the Hunger Games and Quarter Quell. Each is arranged by district. I'm gaping at the first photo clearly marked "GLIMMER HAYSWORTH - DISTRICT 1" when Peeta seems to notice my shock.

"This isn't what I wanted," I ramble off as the green eyes in the photo morph into a vicious, snarling mutt in my mind. "I didn't want all the tributes. Just a few."

I start picking out the photos I had in mind. Rue. Mags. Seeder. Wiress.

"I know," says Peeta. "I asked for all of them."

There's an unease in his voice that let's me know he expects the argument before it starts.

"Why would you do that?" I feel betrayed by his deviation from my plan. I want to remember the people who saved my life, the people that I love. I want to forget the rest. What's so wrong with that?

"Because you can't just remember the parts that you feel like remembering." I expect a war of words to brew, but Peeta sounds calm and steady as he speaks. He prepared for this fight. "It's unfair to exclude them when they played such a big part in it all. I want to remember all of them."

"I don't," I snap. I'm glaring at Peeta again. I find myself doing this far too often.

He shrugs his shoulders and looks at me knowingly. "We will anyway."

I don't need Peeta to tell me that I'll always remember the games. I can almost see the point he's making, but refuse to bend to his will. Instead, I turn over the box and let the photos spill out.

We cover the entire table as we sort through the lot. Without any communication, we begin to arrange the photos by significance. It's only then that we realize just how much is missing.

"This is all wrong," I say, holding up the two photos of Finnick Odair on the table. In one, he's in his quell interview, dramatically reciting a poem, milking his sex appeal for the Capitol audience. In the other, he's a fourteen-year-old boy, completely unaware of what his life would become. Neither are the Finnick we knew.

Peeta nods slowly. "Well, Aurelis is a Capitol doctor. I doubt he could get much outside of the Capitol archives."

I eye the photos, forcing myself to run through the list of everyone I want to remember. It's uncomfortable, but I know Peeta is doing the same.

He speaks first. "We need something new for Finnick."

"And we're missing Prim," I add. There's a photo of Effie, Cinna, Portia, our prep teams, and for some reason, the terrifying snake eyes of President Snow, but nothing of my sister. I find the icy gray eyes of Alma Coin and think of District Thirteen. "And Boggs, Jackson, the Leegs, the camera crew.."

Peeta is leaning over the table now. "I don't think we're ever going to find anything for the other residents of Twelve."

I hold back a shutter as I think of charred photos in the ash of the firebombing. "Madge," I barely whisper. So many of them have been forgotten.

I burst out at the photos watching me from the table. "This is almost useless!"

I turn away from it all, trying my best to avoid the almost inevitable meltdown that occurs every time I dig into the past. This was a bad idea.

Though he's trying to be quiet, I hear the movement loud and clear. When he puts a hand on my shoulder from behind, it doesn't surprise me.

"I can call Plutarch and get some other photos," he offers. "There's got to be loads from the propos."

Suddenly, it hits me. I scoff, not at Peeta, but at the memory of my last few phone conversations I had with Dr. Aurelis.

"He did this on purpose," I turn to Peeta and read his confusion.

"Dr. Aurelis," I explain. "He told me he wants me to reach out to more people. Open up the lines of communication or something like that. He didn't send me everything so I'd have to ask people."

The odd look on Peeta's face tells me Dr. Aurelis hasn't been having this same conversation with him. I know Peeta hasn't been calling up old acquaintances night and day. Maybe his involvement with the district overhaul has kept him out of the watchful eye of the concerned doctor.

"Well, are you going to ask anyone?" Peeta says with a small, forced smile.

I look past Peeta to the photos once again. I want to be left alone, but I've given myself an overbearing emotional task. It needs to be completed. Just as Haymitch sent me messages with silver parachutes during the games, Dr. Aurelis sends me one in tiny brown packages now. _"You don't have to do this alone."_

_"_You already said you'd call Plutarch," I begin to negotiate, "but I can call someone else." Though Plutarch saved my life and proved to be an ally, there's something about him that I just can't shake. He makes me uncomfortable. It would be easier if Peeta spoke to him.

To avoid further conversation, I open the final, much smaller box.

"Who are you going to call, then?" Peeta questions skeptically.

An older, larger photo lays at the bottom of the box. I pull it out immediately and place it among the others. My parents' wedding photo that had been left in District Thirteen. On top of it, I place the rest of the contents of the box: my Mockingjay pin, looking brand new, and the small pearl Peeta give me during the Quarter Quell. My heart swells with relief knowing these precious items are back in my possession.

"Annie," I answer, tapping the wedding photo lightly. "I want a picture of Finnick like that. I know there were photos taken at their wedding."

Peeta's face smoothes out and he smirks with amusement. "I didn't really think you had another person in mind," he says. "I thought you just wanted to get out of calling Plutarch."

He's mostly right, but I feign shock at the idea that I wouldn't want to speak to the man who was instrumental in the downfall of the Capitol. The moment passes and we're left in the silence with several pairs of eyes staring from the table.

My hand is still lightly poised above my parents' wedding photo. Peeta looks down at it, cocking his head to one side, and I realize it's probably the first time he's seen the image I find so iconic.

"We should start with this one," he suggests.

I couldn't think of a better place to start.

* * *

Dusk is settling over District Twelve. It's getting too dark to see regularly, but neither of us want to move from our carefully entwined position on the couch to turn on a light.

We've avoided the most intimate of acts since the disaster that was our first time. Every time things go too far, one of us brings everything to a halt, too afraid of the outcome. It's not very appealing, so we've slowly had to work through the anxiety together.

As I lay content in the blissful aftermath, I make a mental note that Peeta's now skilled touch pleases me just fine.

"It's been days since I called Plutarch, you know," Peeta reminds me as he twirls a rogue strand of my hair between his fingers. He's not being assertive, but I know what he's implying. I haven't kept up my end of the bargain.

"I'm going to call her," I assure him. "I'm just waiting for the right time."

It's a poor excuse, but I feel the need to keep defending myself. "What if Plutarch sends us pictures from the wedding? Then I won't need to ask."

"I didn't specifically ask Plutarch for pictures of Finnick and Annie's wedding," Peeta says. Then after a long pause, he adds "And I bet she needs someone to talk to."

Annie, the mad tribute from District Four who only made it through the war because of the strength of her husband. Now he's dead. Is she alone or are there others in District Four trying to help her?

I went mad for a brief time after my loved ones died and the Capitol fell. Maybe she's even worse now than before. Maybe she needs the same human interaction I need.

"It's late. I'll call her tomorrow."

The noise is so low I can barely make it out, but I think Peeta sighs. "It's only dinnertime. I'm sure she's awake."

"Fine," I bend under the force of his persistence. "I'll call tonight."

It takes almost another hour, when I'm sure that Peeta is good and busy making dinner, before I allow myself to pick up the telephone. Each ring feels like an eternity. One. Two. Three. Four.

I'm just about to give up when I hear the rattling on the other end.

"Hello?" Annie says. The voice is unmistakable. Soft but nervous, kind but insecure.

Already I'm losing focus. I try to swallow the lump in my throat. "Hi Annie. It's Katniss Everdeen."

"Katniss?" She replies, mystified. It's hard to gage her reaction over the phone. As the memories flood back to me, I imagine the same is happening to her. I wonder if she's got her eyes shut and a hand over her free ear.

"How are you?" I force myself to ask, trying to avoid the inevitable moment when I'll bring up Finnick and all hell will likely break loose.

"Alright." There's a note of distress in her voice that tells me she isn't. The stretch of silence lingers before she keeps up the pleasantries. "And you?"

"Alright," I lie. There, the conversation comes to a standstill. What could I possibly say right now that won't make things worse? There are no words that could make things right for either of us.

Perhaps because she's a bit mad or perhaps because she's been changed by despair, Annie speaks up in a way I'd never had expected.

"Why are you calling, Katniss?"

"Finnick," is all I manage at first. I receive no reply. When my composure snaps into place, I try to form a useful thought. "I was hoping you might give some extra pictures from the wedding. I'm making a book and I'd like one."

These long pauses are starting to become unbearable. There's a few shuffling noises. I really wish I knew what Annie was doing on the opposite side of the line.

"What kind of book?" She finally asks.

I struggle to find a way to describe it without sounding ridiculous. "A book of memories. Just something with pictures and stories of people who.."

"Died?"

"Who we've lost. Yeah." I don't know why I try to soften the blow. Annie and I both know that Finnick was not simply "lost." He died a brutal death, torn apart by Snow's mutts and then blown to pieces. We couldn't even return his body to his family in a small wooden box like they would in the Hunger Games.

I'm in the moment now, watching Finnick's perfect eyes swimming with fear and anticipation as the rose-scented creatures work to end his life. His expression is begging for me to drop the holo and end his misery. My gut clenches and I wretch a little.

"I'm so sorry he's gone!" I mean to be calm and gentle, but it comes off more like a yell. Surely Annie's fallen off the edge of sanity by now. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Annie's reply comes out like a hum. "It's okay, Katniss. I miss him too." I'm surprised by how serene she sounds given the circumstances. "He'd be proud of you."

"I don't think he would," I reply quickly and honestly, thinking about how little I've done with my life since the fall of the Capitol. Perhaps with the exception of Haymitch, everyone in society has been more useful to the reconstruction of Panem than me.

"No, he would," Annie replies confidently. "He wanted you to see it through, kill Snow and make it back home. He thought that was worth dying for." I start to feel queasy again.

"Plus, he wouldn't fault you. He understood how people's minds work," Annie adds. When I'm able to swallow the sentence, I start to feel relieved. I think she's referring to the assassination of President Coin, because there's no way she could know the troubles I've had with my mind since returning home. But the idea that Finnick would understand my life now brings me just a little bit of peace.

"I have a photo for you," she continues when I don't respond fast enough, "from the wedding."

"Is it both of you?"

"Yes, with Peeta's cake. Will that do?"

A slight smile forms on my lips for the first time during the conversation. "That would be great."

With that, I've sealed my end of the deal with both Peeta and Dr. Aurelis. I've got a photo on the way and I've reached out to someone from my past. It wasn't pleasant, but it's done. I'm trying to find the best way to say goodbye without rushing her off the phone when she speaks up again.

"I'm thinking of sending you another picture in a month or so, if you'd like it," she says. I find her words a bit confusing.

"Why in a month?" I inquire, unsure of where this is going.

"Because the baby won't be here until next month," she states plainly, as if I should have known all along. "Didn't your mother tell you?"

Something in my throat sticks and I can hardly find the breath to answer. "We haven't talked in a while."

"She's been my nurse ever since I found out," Annie informs me. "She's been lovely. You should talk to her."

I feel a sudden pang of resentment at the realization that Annie Odair has a better relationship with my mother than I do. I could call my mother, but do I even want to speak to her? What could possibly be said that would change anything?

"That's great news. Congratulations." I try to sound enthusiastic, but I'm not feeling much of anything at the moment.

Annie seems to get the hint. "Well, I'm about to cook supper, so I have to get going," she says.

I've already said my goodbyes and started the pull the phone away from me when I hear her voice call out loudly.

"Katniss?"

"I'm still here."

"You should call again, okay? This was nice." There's a telltale sound as Annie presses her telephone down into the receiver.

Nice? The whole conversation felt raw and awkward to me. Maybe it's because Annie, the girl I've always known to be not quite right in the head, had managed to be far more logical than me. Maybe I am going mad.

I mention as little as possible to Peeta. Satisfied that Annie is contributing to our project, he leaves all the details of our brief conversation be.

Rather than enlighten him, I keep it all inside, clinging on to details that are inconsequential to my reality.

* * *

As the days go by, I find myself getting frustrated with Peeta. Why hasn't he noticed my odd behavior, my strange change in mood? Shouldn't a person who loves you notice these things?

The more I think of my mother, the less I think of myself. I eat when food is cooked for me. I shower when reminded. I speak when prompted.

Peeta is equally caught up in his art. At first, he spends a few minutes a day trying to sketch and paint out his family and Prim, the people we're sure we won't find in photograph form, for the book. But the paintings aren't coming out right. Peeta has trouble capturing the sweet sparkle in Prim's eyes or the robust curve of his father's cheek. Only a couple days later, he's consumed by the project.

A sudden, screeching clamor from the next room awakens me from my daze. I don't bother asking what's happened. My feet fly up from where they rest on the couch and find the floor in an instant. I've developed a sort of system for dealing with Peeta's flashbacks. The first, most basic step is to be there next to him and make sure he doesn't hurt himself.

But when I get into the other room, Peeta isn't crippled by dreadful memories. He's standing over the garbage barrel, sprinkling tiny pieces of a paper he's just ripped up into it. A curved wooden chair next to the kitchen table lays on its back, swaying back and forth ever so slightly against the floor.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it do that," Peeta says swiftly, not sounding very apologetic at all as he moves to the sink to wash the paint off his hands. "I got up a little too quick, that's all."

My breathing slows and I try not to be angry, but my frustration still bubbles up in my voice.

"Who was that?" I ask, pointing to the shreds of paper. Peeta turns his head back to look at me. I expect to see my frustration reflected back in his eyes, but instead I see something more surprising. I see disappointment.

"It was supposed to be my oldest brother," he says. "Instead it turned out looking like a cross between him and one of the doctors in Thirteen."

Once again, Peeta presents me with a moment in which I can't think of anything decent to say. I think he's learned that he can't always expect a response out of me. Sometimes, he'll try to gently coax it out when he knows I'm having trouble expressing myself. As the silence grows longer, I realize this is not one of those times.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm just going to try that one once more, then I'm done for the day, I promise." Then he's sitting back at the table, pulling out a new piece of paper, thoroughly unaware of my presence.

A sinking loneliness that's been creeping up on me for days hits me at its full force. It's sudden and unexpected, considering that nothing drastic has happened. Peeta did nothing wrong. There are no serious issues to be worried about, I tell myself. But I'm worried about absolutely everything. Peeta. My mother. Annie. Haymitch. Our past. Our future. Our legacy.

For the first time in weeks I'm rushing to the door again, preparing to lean over the outside railing as my thoughts threaten to make me sick. Then, a strange thing happens. I'm not running out the door. My foot pivots without my permission and I'm moving up the stairs, past my bedroom and around the sharp left turn of the hallway.

My feet come to a screeching halt. Three doors await me. One leads to a storage room, the other two lead to memories left untouched since before the firebombing. The door a few feet down and to my right is calling for me. Everything in my body is screaming for me to turn back.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old. I survived the Hunger Games. I helped overthrow the Capitol. I am back in my home in District 12. My mother abandoned me. My sister is dead. These are just old rooms._

Despite all my senses begging me to walk away, I force open the door and walk in as quickly as possible, closing the door behind me.

For a moment, I'm transported through time. For a moment, it's as if she's alive again.

If I were to very carefully brush the dust away, the room would be in the exact same condition that Prim had left it. Her hairbrush and hairpieces are still scattered on the table next to her bed. Her winter jacket is still hanging on the bedpost. Her closet door is open and inside, I spy the white blouse she wore on the day of my first reaping.

"Little duck," I croak out to the emptiness.

Her sheets are still folded over from the last time she got out of bed. I hesitate before running my fingertips over them. An extreme calm flows over me and my eyes close. Even in the warm summer months, they feel cool to the touch.

The moment passes and I'm struck by another sense. Nothingness. Prim is not here. She never will be again. What did I expect to find here? Hope? Comfort? None of it exists here.

I begin to wander just as I had in District Thirteen, but this time I'm in like a mouse stuck in a maze. I pace back and forth, examining every inch. My fingerprints make marks in the dust covering each of Prim's personal items. Finally, I make my way back to the bed and collapse on to it.

The sobs begin to wrack my body as I pull the sheets up over me, sending a flurry of dust into the air. I start to sputter, choking as I try to hold in my incoherent cries.

It doesn't take long before I hear the footsteps. He moves so fast that, judging by the crash I hear, he trips and falls on his way up the stairs. When the door swings open, I'm already sitting up, waiting for him.

"Stay out of here!" I shout when he appears in the doorway. "Get out!"

Peeta's eyebrows perk up as he looks around the room from his position in the doorway. The realization slowly spreads across his face. He steps back slowly and cautiously, as if his feet were inches from setting off a trap.

"Why don't you come out here then?" Peeta's shadowy figure reaches out its arms to me. I long to bury myself into them, but doing so would mean leaving Prim behind.

"I can't," I tell him, another fresh wave of tears spilling out of my eyes.

This time it's Peeta, the man who always knows what to say, who seems to be lost for words. I can't blame him. Are there words that can reign in the emotional wreck that I am right now? Perhaps he just knows that on some occasions, it's better to just stay quiet.

He stands there, silent and unmoving, until I cry myself out.

Ever so slowly, I see one of his feet rise up and inch through the doorway, lightly touching down in Prim's room. The other foot follows. He's trying to move stealthily, but he just doesn't know how.

I raise my head to take in the sight. When he notices me looking he stops dead in his tracks, but starts moving again a few moments later when I don't start screaming at him. He continues walking at a snail's pace until he's just inches from the bed.

"C'mon," he says gently, extending a hand out to me. "Let's get out of here."

I know I should go without question, but I still hesitate.

"I can't leave her," I reply, though I know it doesn't make much sense.

Peeta leans over, placing his warm cheek against mine. "You never did, Katniss."

I wrap my arms around Peeta, afraid to ever let go. There are so many opportunities when he should have turned around and ran. Not just today, either. In one way or another, everyone else is gone. But Peeta is still here.

With an extra bit of effort he pulls himself to a standing position, yanking me up with him. We stand there for a minute until I'm ready to release my iron grip on Peeta's neck. He brings me to my room where he sets me down and suggests I take a nap, then leaves again.

I can't rest, so I wait until Peeta returns with a mug of cider to give him the news that started all this.

"Annie is having a baby," I tell him. It seems like such a strange thing to say as he makes his way through the door. He doesn't seem too distracted by the idea. Instead, his face lights up.

"Really?" He says. Then the look of confusion kicks in. "Do you think Finnick knew?"

"No," I answer immediately, having considered the possibility many times myself since hearing the news. "We left for the Capitol in the beginning of February. I don't think anyone would have known by then. Plus, he would have told us."

"He would have told us," Peeta repeats. He sits on the edge of the bed and hands me my drink, rationalizing the situation. "I'm glad, though. I'm glad Annie has something to live for."

Peeta's words make my own selfishness melt. I realize that deep down, I really am happy for Annie. I'm glad that there will still be a little piece of Finnick left in the world. Their child will have so much potential to shape the future of Panem. I take a long sip from my mug before letting Peeta know what's really bothering me.

"My mother has been her nurse. She never told me a thing about Annie."

Peeta's eyes fall to his lap and I know that when he looks up again, he's chosen his words carefully. "Have you talked to her?"

"Once," I tell him, deciding to finally be honest. "Just long enough for her the tell me she's never coming back."

Peeta's arms stretch tight around me and I realize that neither of us have had much for mothers. The woman who raised him was abusive and unforgiving while the woman who raised me was cold and isolated.

"She's not a bad person." I speak my thoughts aloud. "She just didn't know how to be a mother. It's not something that I could do, either."

"You don't know that," Peeta says, trying to soothe me.

"No, I do know that." I lean back so Peeta can see my face. "What part of this situation makes you think I could be responsible for someone else?"

Much to my annoyance, a little smirk spreads across his lips. "I'm not saying it's going to happen tomorrow. It's definitely not a priority at the moment, but you don't know what your future will be like, either."

"I don't even want to think about the future right now, but I know what I want, okay?"

He doesn't press the issue. Instead, he pulls me back into his arms and flops over on to the bed so that's we're both laying down, albeit a bit awkwardly.

"Next month will be an interesting one," he sighs. "Plutarch is coming to District Twelve."

I prop my head up on one arm, realizing that I'm not the only one who has been clinging to secrets. "Why?"

"Well, he's coming to observe shooting for the cultural show," he says, but the lump in his throat tells me there's more.

"And?"

"He wants to interview us. He's trying to put together a special presentation about life after the fall of the Capitol. He just wants to see what we've been up to and ask a few questions. I told him I didn't think it was a good idea, but he's pretty insistent."

Suddenly, my mother feels like the least of my worries. Plutarch Heavensbee is coming to District Twelve to report my status back to the rest of Panem. But I've been here wallowing in my own self-pity, useless to the nation at hand. They already think I'm mad. Film crews will only make it so much worse.

"That's a horrible idea," I croak out.

Peeta laughs. "I know, but he's already got a few of the main players in the rebellion to agree. Apparently, they've got something worth showing. Even if we say no, Plutarch will probably try anyway."

My gut clenches. "Who's agreed?"

"I didn't ask."

I'm conflicted as to whether or not I should be mad at Peeta. Surely his secret is much worse than mine, but we both were looking for a way to escape the truths around us. Panem is calling us back. Did we really think that the rest of country would leave us be until our dying day? No. Panem has given us our time to rest and mourn. Now it wants us to give it some answers.

"He wants to see the book," Peeta continues. "I told him I'd do what I can."

"That's why you've been covered in paint, muttering under your breath for days?" I ask.

Peeta shrugs. "I guess. I just want to make sure I get the portraits right, you know? So that everyone who sees it will remember them the same way we do."

"So you're going to let him interview you?"

"I think I am," Peeta says with a bit of confidence shining through his voice. "I haven't got much to say. I'm not going to start talking about the government or anything, but I think that people need that reassurance that life goes on."

It makes sense. Peeta has spent so much time in the public eye that people wonder about him. They like him. He could change the world with his words, but instead they'll settle for seeing him alive, much like they did upon seeing my first propo.

"I didn't give any answers on your behalf, though," he clarifies. "He wants you to call him."

I snort. I've done so much to avoid speaking to Plutarch, but the man just can't let it go. It's either going to be a phone call or a knock on my door, but either way, he'll find his chance to speak to me.

I don't know if I'm ready to let Panem see me. There's so many things I could be doing for the country, but I haven't done much at all. All I've got is blueprints for a memorial, a book that will be partially filled with old memories and a home issued to me by the Capitol.

There's only one remarkable thing about me: I survived. I hope that's enough.

"Why don't you call Plutarch for me?" I try to persuade Peeta. "You can tell him I'll do it."


	5. Mutt

Welcome back to another chapter my lovely readers! I want to thank you all once again for your ongoing support, despite me making you wait forever between chapters! I always try to write and edit a chapter within a reasonable time period, but life is hectic and these chapters just keep getting longer!

This is a chapter where things... get interesting. I'm sure there will be some mixed reviews but I hope you'll enjoy it!

* * *

It's hard to realize how few children live in District Twelve until they're all standing right in front of you.

About nine hundred residents survived the Capitol's firebombing. Since the end of the war, only a few hundred residents have come back to the district. Most of them didn't have much left for familial ties. District Thirteen is stricter and more stuffy, but in the aftermath of wartime, it's much safer for families. Most parents from Twelve agreed to live a more restricted life in Thirteen to keep their family secure there. A sentimental few brought their children back to their rightful home to rebuild the life they once had with small government stipends.

I'm trying to do a head count of the children as they stand before me. Thirty-five? Forty? If it weren't for the age discrepancies between them, I'd confuse them with a large class of students lining up for school. But there is no school in District Twelve. Not yet.

A camera flashes in my face and I remember why I'm here. I look back at the bakery, still impressed with the work that Thom's crew has accomplished. The storefront is practically a replica of the place where Peeta's family once made their living. Too bad Plutarch Heavensbee has turned what should be a small, happy occasion for Peeta into a publicity stunt.

Peeta walks through the open doors carrying a large tray of sweets and the crowd cheers. More cameras go off. Red video camera lights turn on as men in insect suits begin documenting the event. The children have been placed up front so the cameras can catch every moment of Peeta handing them cupcakes with a gold mockingjay iced on top of white frosting. The whole scenario is far too uniform to be real.

I take a step back toward the shadows, trying my best to keep my faux smile bright. With no mentors to keep me on track, dealing with the public is much more difficult than I remember.

Plutarch won't arrive in District Twelve until next week, but I know full well that he's meticulously planned every detail of this event and every other that will air on the national network.

As Peeta begins to give his short speech, thanking the crowd for coming out and supporting him over the years, I begin to worry about being on camera again. I wonder about the questions we'll be asked and the reaction we'll receive from the nation. Plutarch promised Peeta that he'd only present us in the best of light, as the misunderstood heroes of Panem. I wonder how much work that will take him.

Seemingly sensing my hesitation, Peeta takes a few steps back, reaches for my hand and coaxes me forward. The crowd roars and the cameras flash once again. I wave enthusiastically, hating every moment of it. Why would Peeta pull me further into this?

"I'd like to give a special thanks to Katniss Everdeen," he says. I immediately feel the blush rising in my cheeks, but at the same time, I'm trying not the glare at Peeta for this very public display of affection.

"She can't bake!" Peeta plays to the crowd, earning a few hearty chuckles. "But without her, I wouldn't be here. None of us would. I've been very lucky to have had her by my side as I worked on this project."

As the camera roll, Peeta releases his hand and moves his arm over my shoulders, pulling me close to him. It's then that I realize what he's doing. He's letting everyone who will watch this, which is sure to be almost all of Panem, know that we really are together. He wants them to think it was never a ploy. He wants them to know that I'm here _with him_.

I bare my teeth to him in a sugary sweet smile and speak quickly and quietly through my teeth so only Peeta can hear. "I'm not here to be your trophy."

I bring my hand on the curve of Peeta's lower back and give the skin a good hard pinch, hoping he'll feel a fraction of the discomfort I feel in this moment. His face contorts in shock for just a second before he regains his composure. He turns to me questioningly, then his eyebrows hitch up and he breaks into a smirk. He must know what he's done wrong, but then again, he probably knows there's not much else I can do about it right now.

He plants a kiss on my lips and we are instantly engulfed by the repeatedly flashing lights. Then his cheek moves up against mine and he whispers in my ear "Then why are you still here?"

He's trying to be charming and coy, but I won't be outdone. I move away from him without a second thought and begin chatting with the children in front of us, wondering what the look on Peeta's face is like. Most them of have already devoured their cupcakes. I realize that there are probably children in the group who have never had one before. All of them seem pleased.

I collect the dessert wrappers from their tiny hands and offer them napkins to wipe their icing-covered faces. Parents begin to break through the invisible barrier set by the event organizers to collect their little ones.

"Hello," I hear a voice call down above the spot where I kneel. When I look up, I don't know the woman looking down on me, but I know she's not from the Seam. Her hair is short and dark, but her skin is pallid and her eyes an inviting shade of green. She scoops up a little girl standing near me and gives me an unsure smile.

"Hello," I smile back just as insecurely. I'm running through the list of everyone I can remember from District Twelve, but her face isn't registering.

"We've never met, formally," she says, answering my lingering question. "I just wanted to say hello." She holds out a hand to shake mine, but quickly pulls it back to steady her daughter, who looks about two-years-old, in her arms.

"My husband was part of the rebel army in the Capitol with you," she explains eagerly, but then her gaze drops to the ground. "He died the night the rebels seized the square."

Even here at what should have been a no-frills opening of a local bakery, the ghosts have come to haunt me. But this is not a ghost. This is a living, breathing woman. The mother of a little girl. The widow of a dead rebel.

"I'm so sorry," I tell her, trying my best to show I care while still looking uninteresting to the camera-laden crowd.

I expect her to scream or cry, either of which would be appropriate in this situation, but she does neither. Instead, she watches the child in her arms ever so carefully, gathers herself, and says the least expected thing I imagined.

"I just want to thank you for all you did," she says. "I'm glad you came back here."

I know she's not trying to make me feel awful, but she does.

"I had to come back," I tell her, realizing that I'd never once left my district willingly. "It's home."

Her sad smile moves to her eyes and she examines the square. At the moment, it consists of only the bakery, the finished but barren mayor's house, and the partially rebuilt Justice building.

"It's got a lot of potential," she says in a hopeful tone. "It's a good place to start over."

Slowly, it clicks into place. The unfamiliar facial features. Family directly involved in the rebellion. The insecurity upon approaching anyone else in the square, especially me.

"You're from Thirteen, aren't you?" I ask.

She nods knowingly, looking a bit overwhelmed. "I was," she admits, "but this district needed a doctor and I needed a change of scenery."

Her face lightens and she quips somewhat sarcastically "The air quality up here is fantastic!"

"So you're the doctor?" I inquire. _My mother's replacement,_ my brain pokes once before I push it away.

"I'm the doctor," she repeats as if she's not just told me. "I'm working out of my house toward the edge of town now, but I'm hoping we'll have a facility soon enough."

I feel a sudden appreciation toward this stranger. She has a daughter to worry about and I'm sure her living conditions are less than satisfactory, but she's here. She doesn't have to help us, but she will.

I snap back into our conversation. "Thank you for letting me know. It was really nice to meet you."

The woman's brown-haired little girl begins to struggle in her arms, letting out a grumpy moan as she does. The mother takes this as her cue to leave, saying one last thank you before making her way through the thinning crowd.

The cameras are gone, but there are still a few spectators in the area. I feel too vulnerable, too aware of my impact on their lives. My feelings warp from vulnerability to discomfort to dizzying sickness within a matter of seconds.

Peeta is speaking to an old teacher when I walk by. I'm not sure if he notices me sprinting into the bakery in his peripheral vision.

Once inside, I pour myself a glass of milk from the back room containing Peeta's baking supplies. The first sip cools my throat, curing my panic almost instantly. A strange realization comes into place.

Despite getting a bit nervous at the end of the event, I handled this situation much better than I would have six months ago. I kept my cool in front of the district and the media firestorm. I stood tall next to Peeta and spoke to the widow of a dead rebel without a nervous breakdown. I wouldn't have been able to do any of that in the spring. I would have tried, but the past would have kicked in at full force and I'd be lost to the world before anyone could realize what was happening to me.

It's a slow, agonizing, imprecise science, but the results point to one conclusion that I hadn't considered before this day.

I'm getting better.

"Katniss?" I'm impressed by how quickly Peeta has made a move to come find me. I step out from the back room, trying to look casual. Relief spreads across Peeta's features when he realizes I'm not huddled in a corner somewhere.

"Just getting a drink." I hold up my glass for his inspection. "Do you need to some help cleaning up?"

Peeta shakes his head, glancing over at the piled up dishes and countertop surfaces in need of scrubbing. "I've got it. You can just hang out, if you want."

It doesn't take much convincing before I'm leaning back in a chair, munching on an extra cupcake, trying not to get too many crumbs on the pristine new tables. Since all grand opening activities were held outside today, I am the first person to sit at these tables. For about five minutes, I'm perfectly content watching Peeta clean and savoring the chocolate treat as the day comes to an end.

The shrill ring of a bell on the door alerts us to a newcomer in our midst. I look up to see Haymitch, who looks pleasantly surprised with his new surroundings.

"Not bad," he judges aloud.

"You're late," Peeta calls back in response. "The free food ran out about a half hour ago."

"Bullshit," Haymitch scoffs indignantly. He's not acting like a fumbling drunk at the moment, but I doubt he's sober. "You know I wasn't going to be here during that circus and you always leave me something."

Peeta holds his own in their staring contest until he can no longer resist. His smirk gives him away and he pulls out a tray with three leftover cupcakes, offering them up to Haymitch.

"I saved your life. You repay me in baked goods," Haymitch quips before stuffing his first bite into his mouth.

"The opening ceremony went well, by the way," Peeta tells him in reply, though Haymitch would never ask.

The mood is so pleasant and I'm afraid to hit a nerve, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

"Why didn't you come, Haymitch?" I ask. "Didn't Plutarch talk to you about all this?"

Haymitch nods rapidly. "He asked me to play happy survivor for the camera. I said no." He takes a massive bite and after chewing two or three times, continues to talk with his mouth full. "When he insisted, I told him to go to hell."

"But I thought you and Plutarch were friends."

"You're confusing a convenient working relationship with friendship," Haymitch tells me matter-of-factly. He snaps a finger at Peeta then signals for a drink. "Plutarch needed me for the sake of his rebellion and I needed him for mine."

I consider asking Haymitch what he means by implying that he and Plutarch were both key players in each other's personal rebellions, but I know he doesn't want to talk about it. If I press my luck, I'll pay for it when Haymitch is dead drunk and causing a ruckus later tonight. It happens less these days and I'm hoping to keep it that way.

Peeta puts a small glass of water on the table for Haymitch, who walks over and gulps it down in seconds. He stands there for a moment, looking at nothing in particular.

"It's not his fault that he's a bastard. He's just a child of the Capitol," he says plainly. "He doesn't know any better."

I think back to my prep team, who I haven't seen since the day I killed Alma Coin. Certainly they didn't know what lay beyond their glamorous life in the Capitol and they paid dearly for it when they reached the rebel base. I wonder what the changes in society have done to them, but I'll never call to ask. They're so enveloped in Capitol gossip that I'm sure they believe I'm not stable. It's best to leave them alone.

As soon as Peeta's back is turned again, Haymitch snatches up the two remaining cupcakes.

"I'm taking these for the road," he says, already carried halfway to the door by his long strides. By the time Peeta has a chance to react, Haymitch is already gone.

"One of those was supposed to be mine," Peeta tells me in a disappointed, slightly flustered voice.

"You can always make more," I laugh, finding it a bit ridiculous that the baker is acting as if he'll never see another cupcake.

Peeta hangs his dish rag over the faucet. "Well, not tonight," he says, "though I do have to pack up a lot of supplies from my house if I plan to bake here again in the morning."

He rounds the counter with a look of anticipation and weariness on his face. "So I was thinking, since that will take a while, maybe we could both stay at my house tonight?"

I find it almost comical to see how timid Peeta is to ask me this. Besides one or two desperate occasions, I've never asked Peeta to say at my house in Victor's Village. Our routine seemed to form organically. I guess he's worried about changing it, because he's staring at me with trepidation.

"We don't have to," he injects when I don't answer right away. "It's right across the street so it doesn't really make a difference."

No matter how much he tries to hide it, I know it does make a difference to him. Peeta has a home and it's not mine. In my own ignorant bliss, I've been neglecting that fact. He's been using it as a workspace for quite some time, but I haven't stepped inside in ages.

"No, I think it would be nice to stay to your house." I give me a small smile to encourage him. That's all it takes for him to burst out in a goofy grin, his body language relaxing before my eyes.

About a half hour later when Peeta and I have made it through the threshold of his front door, I realize this house is not at all what I expected.

There's not a single decoration to be found. The halls are barren. The living room is nothing but a television with a love seat sitting a few feet away. The kitchen is overflowing with baking supplies, but the table only has two chairs.

"Why don't you put a few paintings up around here?" I suggest, looking at the empty spaces all around.

Peeta snickers. "My paintings really aren't meant for home decoration."

I think back to his collection from the Victory Tour. I realize I haven't seen any of his art since, but if it's all along the same lines, he's probably right.

There's no signs of life, no memories, no tiny bits of affection like the ones that still linger in the corners of my home. This house is hollow. It all points to a young man who was slowly abandoned by his family long before they were taken from him.

Peeta doesn't seem to notice my shock. Instead, he begins filling small cloth bag with flour from the massive bag leaning against his kitchen counter.

"How do you think things are gong to play out when Plutarch comes knocking on Haymitch's door?" He questions, clearly not anticipating the situation he's discussing.

I don't want to judge either man too harshly, but I can't imagine it gong well. One of them has a distinct advantage over the other: his camera crew.

"I think Plutarch is going to make Haymitch look very, very bad," I reply after careful consideration.

"Haymitch won't care," Peeta considers as he ties up the small bag of flour and places it in a large box. "At least, not outwardly."

"I don't think he will inwardly, either. After a while, it's easier not to care about the people who abandon you," I predict. A pang of dread pounds in my chest. Peeta gives me a strangled look, but doesn't say a word.

The feeling subsides as I watch Peeta grab another small bag and begin his portioning process over again, this time with the giant bag of sugar.

"Why don't you just take all of it?" I ask, looking at all of the nearly-full bags of ingredients laying around.

Peeta shakes his head. "It's too much of a process. I'm just going to take what I need for now and bring any new supplies straight to the bakery." He pulls a small tin out of the cabinet, opens it, and pops a small piece of chocolate into his mouth before placing it in the box. "Plus," his head motions to the bag of flour that stands as high as my waist. "You try to lift that."

"Fine," I say somewhat cheekily. I know I'm not as strong as Peeta, but if I can climb trees without hesitation, I can lift a bag of flour off the ground for a couple seconds. I force my arms under the bag, forming a space between it and the floor. I take a second of steady myself, then force my legs up, lifting the flour.

I'm only allowed my sense of pride for a moment before the bag feels like an anvil in my arms, making me unsteady. As it begins to tip, I make a desperate attempt to place it back down. I can hear Peeta laughing in the background.

Just before it falls from my hands, I manage to push the bag up against the counter and drop it far too quickly, sending a flurry of white all around me.

Peeta's laughter is in full force now as he walks over and begins wiping flour out of my hair. A bit embarrassed, my hands also move up to my head. When they come down again, they're covered in the white powder. I get my revenge on Peeta by immediately pushing my hands against his chest, covering his shirt with flour handprints.

It's a rare moment when we're both laughing together like this. For those few moments, it's as if every terror we've ever encountered can be forgotten.

When my lips touch Peeta's, it only serves to make things a million times better. I cover him in even more floury handprints as I clutch on to him, deepening the kiss. One of his hands runs through my hair while the other snakes around me to pull me closer, making it hard not to ache for him.

When I push my body roughly against him, he stumbles back a few steps. "Easy," he snickers when he regains his balance. "Take it easy."

As my hand slides up the back of his shirt, I realize that this is the major difference between Peeta and I when we explore each other. He likes to take things slowly. I don't.

When I drag my nails along his back, his hips buck toward me. I feel his tension grinding up against me for a fraction of a second before he pulls away, unable to admit his weakness.

In one swift movement, he swings me around and sits me down on the table, creating a bit of space between us as he continues to kiss me.

"Why are you pulling away?" I ask. I try to sound playful, but I know Peeta can hear my frustration.

"Just I don't want to ruin it," Peeta says, looking a little panicked. "I just feel good right now." He lets out an odd laugh. "Really good."

It takes me second to catch on. The shock registers on my face and Peeta guffaws awkwardly.

"Do I really have that much of an effect on you?" I question, feeling a rise in my self-confidence.

"Pathetic, I know," Peeta dips his head down and begins placing hard, meaningful kisses down my neck. His head brushes against my face until his lips are next to my ear. "No one has ever has ever affected me like you do. I just don't want to ruin it."

Peeta pulls my shirt to the side and begins kissing my bare shoulders. It's bizarre and empowering all at once to know that I turn him on to the point where he feels the slightest touch from me will be too much for him to stand. It makes me want to touch him even more, but I resist for his sake.

However, when Peeta's hand slowly tickles its way down my abdomen and to the most sensitive area of my body, I make no objections. It's the one thing that I know Peeta is capable of, so I let him take control.

"What happened to taking it easy?" I gasp out playfully.

Peeta's lips plant a few more wet kisses on my neck before he replies. "For me," he says. "Not for you."

It's amazing just how meticulous Peeta is when it comes to taking care of me. As I arch myself up toward him, I realize that he puts much more time and effort into pleasing me than I do him. It's unfair, really, but these delicious sensations are too good to ignore.

My eyes squeeze shut. My breathing turns erratic. My arms leave Peeta's body in an effort to hold myself up on the table's surface. The familiar feeling is creeping up on me slowly until suddenly, it stops.

When I snap my eyes open, Peeta is staring at me, eyes wide, choking on his words.

The words finally come spilling out of his mouth in a panic. "I want to try something."

The simple phrase triggers an irrational amount of fear in me. I consider moving away from Peeta, but something stops me.

"Remember how I told you I've never had sex before..." His sentence trails off in his struggle, but he quickly avoids any misunderstandings. "Well, that's true."

Since I had briefly prepared myself for a horrible confession, a weight is lifted off my chest.

"But I have done.." he bites at his lip wearily, "..some other things."

"With whom?" I ask, wildly unsettled by Peeta's choice to reveal this information at such an inopportune moment.

"I feel awful about not mentioning it earlier," he says, averting my question. "It was before the games. But I'm telling you now because I want to be honest about it." His fingers move in slow circles against me once again. "And I want to make it up to you."

I'm seething from head to toe until a memory rolls into my mind. Gale's body pressing me up against a tree in District Two as he kisses me with everything he has while Peeta sits in a hospital room in Thirteen, hijacked and alone. How could I possibly blame Peeta for relationships he had before we'd even started speaking?

"How?" I ask when I regain my voice.

He doesn't offer up a straight answer. Instead, he says "Just lay back."

The wooden table is cold and hard, only adding to my discomfort. As I feel my bottom layers slide down past my knees, I'm sure of what Peeta plans to do, but I'm too scared to function. A rational voice in my head reminds me that this is Peeta, the one person I know I can trust beyond all others.

I keep my head glued down on the table as my places soft kisses on my thighs. I feel his hot breath nearing the spot where I ache for him, then the pressure of his tongue on my skin.

"Oh!" I cry out involuntarily. The feeling is so unexpected, so unlike anything I've felt before, that I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Half of my being feels self-conscious and embarrassed, but the other half is too caught up in the moment to care.

After a few minutes, it becomes clear that Peeta is also a little unsure of himself. He alternates between using his tongue and fingers, constantly looking up at me to see what I react to best.

When he uses his thumb to press hard circles around my nerve center while licking below, I give him the vote of confidence he needs by reaching down and pulling at his hair.

The sweetest agony is building up inside me as Peeta continues his ministrations faster and harder than ever before. I know what's about to happen, but for some reason, I don't want it to.

I realize what I want to do, but the situation is still new and frightening. I had such a bad experience with it. I'm worried. I'm not even in the comfort of my own home. But some animal instinct inside of me screams at me that this is not enough.

"Stop," I call out, my voice sounding wrecked and panicked. "Just stop,"

I immediately prop myself up to find Peeta's face looking wounded and confused. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, clearly thinking he had.

Staring into his worried blue eyes, the words buckle in my throat and come out in disjointed bursts. "No! It's not- You didn't-"

I bite my tongue, but Peeta's is already starting to stand up and move away, completely thrown back by my actions. As I start to feel the loss of his body heat, I jerk myself up into a sitting position and grab him by his t-shirt. When he's close to me once again, I nestle my head against his chest, knowing that I've only got a few moments to gather myself before this ends very badly.

"It's just.. I wanted to try something." I stuck in a deep breath before looking up into his eyes. "Again."

This time, Peeta catches on right away. It excites me even more to know that he's been thinking about it too. He tilts his head down and kisses me long and hard before pulling away.

"Are you sure?" He asks. I can sense his hesitation and I know why it exists, but I need Peeta to know that I won't blame him for anything that happens in this moment.

"I've never been more sure," I say, trying to sound more confident than I actually feel. I reach my hand down to unsnap the buttons on Peeta's pants. He lets out a shudder, then his fingers fumble over my body until he finds my nub once again. He continues to do this as I force his pants off of him, struggling a bit in my urgency.

"Wait," he gasps as I start to coax him toward me, ready for the final step. He glances around the kitchen a bit wearily. "Right here?"

It's hard to explain why this makes me laugh. Perhaps it's because I know this kitchen probably is sacred to Peeta. Or maybe it's because I've just realized that I've got him pants-down in the middle of it. When his laughter follows mine, I realize it doesn't matter.

"It doesn't make a difference," I tell him in between kisses that are meant to be reassuring. "Wherever you want to go. I just want to be with you."

Peeta considers this for a fraction of a second before his hands are on me again, tugging at my shirt. "Forget it, then," he decides, sounding gruff and hungry for more.

I return the favor, yanking his shirt over his head and tracing my hand down his body until I reach what I'm looking for. Peeta moves achingly slow as I guide him toward my entrance, pushing into me. Everything that had felt so desperately rushed before goes far too slow for my liking now. It feels like ages have gone by in the time it takes Peeta and I to fully connect.

My body shakes slightly from anticipation and the still unfamiliar fullness, but there's no serious pain. Instead, I feel Peeta more deeply than ever. His slick skin. His measured breathing. His radiating warmth.

As we start to move together, my nerves seem to tangle up in stomach. It was so much easier the first time, uninhibited and overtaken by lust in the dark room. Now we can only stare at each other, watching each others' faces as the sensations build up within us.

On one particularly hard thrust from Peeta, I buck my hips of against him, earning a wildly blissful reaction from him.

"Did that feel good?" I ask gently, though I know the question isn't really necessary. He nods his head rapidly, then repositions his hands to get a tighter grip on my body. He thrusts toward me and I bring my hips up to meet him over and over again until we find a rhythm.

The delicious ache that tells me I'm close to the edge hits me suddenly, throwing me off balance. I'm thrusting up to meet Peeta erratically, losing our rhythm to my need to feel complete. Peeta doesn't try to steady me. Instead, he steadies himself, clutching at my body, pulling me toward him with enough strength to lift my lower back right off the table.

I can see his exhaustion, hear the raw panting breaths emitting from his throat, but I don't want him to slow down.

"Please keep going," I beg him. "Please. I'm so close."

Peeta's face scrunches up in determination. His nods again curtly, much more serious than before, then begins the move faster.

Relief of my tensions crashes over me almost instantly, sending the room into a blur of colors as my muscles contract around Peeta. I dig my fingernails into the flesh of his arm, letting out a sharp gasp followed by a low, satisfied whimper when the feeling begins to dissipate.

I lay there for a moment, letting the electric pulses work their way through my body, completely selfish in my satisfaction, before I realize that Peeta has practically fallen on top of me.

He's placed his hands down on the table on either side of me, trying to steady himself. His head hangs down above me as he works to catch his breath. When I run my foot along his leg, I feel it shaking. Pleasing me so passionately has left Peeta exhausted and he still remains unsatisfied. I know I can't let him continue on like this.

"Sit down," I tell him once I've regained my senses.

Peeta shakes his head, giving me a mischievous grin. "I'm not done with you yet."

"I know," I confirm, still able to feel him inside me. "Sit down."

He stares down at me incredulously for another minute before moving off of me to comply with my request. He pulls a chair out from the table and sits down. He's watching me carefully, awaiting my next move.

There's something about the way he waits, completely vulnerable to my whims, that makes me eager to fulfill his desires. I want to give him everything he's anticipating.

Without a word, I hop down from my spot on the table and move my body over his teasingly, my mouth sucking at the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. Peeta grows impatient, lifting his hips toward me until I finally give in and join our bodies once again.

I realize at once that it's more difficult to be in control. It takes me longer to find a rhythm and I have to grip the back of the chair to steady myself, but the look of wild abandon Peeta gives me confirms that it's worth it. He runs his hands over my shoulders, breasts, stomach, and back, placing warm, wet kisses all over me.

As I roll my hips over him repeatedly, he lets out strangled grunts and whimpers that I can't help but return as I feel the pressure building between us.

"Katniss.. I can't.." he mumurs. I can see the struggle in Peeta's eyes every time he jerks up into me. He's trying to hold on, but it's becoming too daunting a task.

I clutch on to the base on his neck with one hand and look down at him as reassuringly as I can muster. "Let go, Peeta."

It only takes a few more thrusts before he complies with my request, pulling me down on him, a frantic shiver running through him as he gives in to the sheer pleasure I felt a few minutes prior.

We hold each other close, our bodies slick and shaking but immensely satisfied. Peeta pulls away to brush off some flour that's rubbed onto his face, then he moves his hand through my flour-streaked hair, grinning like a fool.

"So you're going to be okay with this in the morning, right?" He jokes, though I think part of him is asking seriously.

"Definitely."

He looks around the room wearily, as if he's only just realizing where he is. The table has been pushed back about a foot from its original spot. A thin layer of flour covers one corner of the kitchen and streaks our bodies.

"I really need to clean this place up," he barks out in a laugh. It's an odd way to come back to reality after such an unusual departure, but I can't help but laugh along with him.

Messy. Unexpected. Exhausting but certainly worth it. Maybe this is the way it's supposed to be.

* * *

When I wake in the middle of the night in Peeta's bed, I am alone.

It's a peculiar feeling to have woken up in the middle of the night without the threat of nightmares looming over me, but without Peeta here, the night is even more disconcerting. I've become accustomed to his concerned glances and gentle touches as he lulls me back to sleep after a nightmare.

Now, I find myself wide awake in the dead of night, questioning where he could be. I know that I've wandered into horrible, painful situations when left to my own devices in my home. As the minutes tick by, I begin to worry that Peeta is doing the same.

I'm out of bed and tiptoeing down the hall before I've given it much thought.

Light shines out under the crack of the door at the end of the hall, but I hear nothing. No whimpers or cries. No yelling or banging. Nothing that points to distress whatsoever.

Knowing that Peeta is probably okay, I consider going back to bed. However, curiosity has gotten the better of me. What could he possibly be doing this late at night?

I creep further down the hall with soft hunter's footsteps until I'm next to the door. I'm unsure of what I'll find inside. Even if he's not wallowing in his sorrows, there's something unsettling about him hiding behind closed doors in the night.

I turn the handle slowly and the door swings open with ease, only letting out one small squeak when I first begin to push it. All of the objects in the room come flooding into my vision and I begin to wonder how many people have been in here. Very few, I'd guess.

This is Peeta's art studio, equipped with every tool a painter could ever need. His collection from the Victory Tour is scattered all over. It's joined by several new paintings, all as beautiful as they are horrifying. A portrait of his family, except none of them have faces. The bones of a young child by the fence in the meadow. A pristine painting of the new bakery marred by dark, foreboding shadows atop it where there once was a second floor; his childhood home. Haymitch asleep on his couch, a bottle in one hand and a knife in the other.

Peeta is positioned on a stool near the far window. Caught up in his work, he doesn't seem to notice my presence. I look over his shoulder at what's unfolded on the canvas.

It's me. A bit younger, a bit more confident, and flashing a winning smile. Peeta has intricately blended the golds, oranges, yellows and reds to bring Cinna's vision of the girl on fire back to life again. It's all so beautiful at first glance. I'm beginning to feel flattered and sentimental until the rest of the painting catches my attention.

Instead of falling beautifully to the ground as Cinna's original design had done, the gown Peeta has painted flares up into genuine flames behind my dazzling figure. In the fire, there's a face burning.

The face is looking at me with a calm clarity about her despite that she's suffocating in my flames. A girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and a bit of baby fat left in her cheeks.

Prim.

I don't recall gasping or sighing, but I must have done something because Peeta swings around anxiously, frightened by my presence. He immediately stands up to hide the painting, but it's too late.

"It's really not what you think," he says, setting down his paintbrush but never losing eye contact with me.

He takes a step toward me. I take a step back.

"How could you?" I sneer at him. I think of all the times I worried about my involvement in Prim's death. How often I blamed myself. Peeta always told me he never thought it was my fault. I know now that he lied.

"It's therapy," he argues. "I know it doesn't make a lot of sense but you're interpreting it the wrong way. She looks serene-"

"Am I?" I yell, not caring enough to reign in my emotions. "Because it looks a lot to me like a painting of my sister dying because of my involvement in the games!"

I'm walking away before he has time to respond, but I can hear him following me, knocking something heavy to the ground and slamming the door behind him.

"It's not about you! It's about what we all went through!" He screams after me. It chills me to see him so angry, so defensive and brutish. It's so unlike Peeta. I've never seen him defend anything so vehemently, besides perhaps me. "So don't just assume that you're the only person in that painting who matters!"

"You think everything is a personal attack. Nothing is ever good enough for the Mockingjay," he continues. He's no longer yelling. Instead, his words come out low and cold. "It's like you want me to go crazy here."

It's a painting. A simple piece of art. Yet Peeta is willing to defend it in the worst way. My stomach is churning, but even worse than that is another feeling welling up within me. It tells me that I've been fooling myself. There's no chance Peeta will ever fully recover from his hijacking.

"They've still got you turned against me, haven't they?" I spin around to face him, the accusations heavy on my lips. "No matter what happens, deep down, part of you will always think I'm evil-"

"It's not like that, Katniss!"

"-and that I'm some kind of mutt out to destroy us all!"

"The only person you've ever been content on destroying is yourself!"

Peeta's words disgust me. I turn away from him again. A hollow ache burrows into my chest. There's nothing more to be said.

When I walk out the door, he doesn't follow me. I can hear him yelling from the doorway, but his words don't translate into speech in my jumbled mind.

For the first time since I met Peeta, I can feel it. I've tried to feel it before, but something had always held me back. But not now. I hear his voice behind me and I feel it come on thick, ice cold, and overpowering as it pulses through my veins.

Hatred.


	6. Enemy

Whew! Another chapter down!

As always, I have to thank all of you wonderfully wonderful reviewers for giving me your feedback and opinions. They are the fuel from which I get the energy to write (though I still finish chapters much slower than I mean to!) I probably would have dissolved into a keysmashing wreck a long time ago were it not for your loveliness!

In return, I offer you a hard-to-shallow chapter. It may not make you feel all fluffy inside, but I firmly believe that realistic problems cannot be solved over the course of one chapter. I hope we can still be friends when it's all over! ;-)

* * *

It's been less than three days since I last spoke to Peeta and already I feel like I'm losing myself.

Hate, pain, hope and fear rage on like a hurricane inside me, mixing together so thoroughly that its impossible to feel much of anything at all.

"Has anyone asked the other recovery workers?" The sound of Greasy Sae's voice rises above the chaos within me, reminding me that I'm not alone.

I'm sitting at my kitchen table in the company of a few others besides Sae, including Thom, Bristel, part of Plutarch's camera crew (sans equipment), and a somewhat uninterested Haymitch.

"We'll ask around to make sure," Bristel offers in reply. "Different teams are out at all hours. Someone had to have spotted him."

This slight exchange makes the storm inside me boil down into a thick ooze that simultaneously weighs down my insides and bubbles up just under my skin, making me want to claw it all off.

I try to scratch at my arms slowly and inconspicuously as Haymitch finally speaks up. "This isn't necessary. He's an eighteen-year-old kid who had a fight with his girlfriend. He'll be back once he gets it out of his system."

I feel an overpowering urge to lunge across the table and hit Haymitch for his condescending, oversimplified explanation. He of all people should know what Peeta is capable of when left to his own devices. Yet another part of me hopes that Haymitch's theory is correct.

I don't know what time I left Peeta's house that night. All I know now is that sometime just before dawn, Peeta woke Greasy Sae out of a dead sleep. Standing on her doorstep, he implored her to take care of me. He claimed he'd be busy for a while. In her early morning stupor, she didn't pluck up the energy to ask more questions before he walked away. She assumed there were some issues at the bakery.

The bakery didn't open that day. It didn't open the next day. Residents began to question his absence. Greasy Sae started to ask around. No, nobody had seen him. What happened? Was he ill?

It was Thom who Greasy Sae had finally convinced to break into Peeta's house earlier today when he still wouldn't answer the door. Haymitch followed them in. He claims it was curiosity, but I think he just didn't trust them. Inside, Greasy Sae's worst fears were confirmed. It looked as if the house had been ransacked. The only signs that Peeta may have left safely were some missing clothes and food.

Strewn across the upstairs hallway were pieces of a canvas. It was painted in red, orange, yellow and gold. The others didn't know what to make of it, but when they told me, I knew. If they somehow managed to piece the torn and tattered canvas back together, they'd find a dark-haired girl with a winning smile and her serene-looking little sister being licked by flames.

As Greasy Sae began to organize the rescue party, I told Haymitch about the painting and our argument in secrecy. He immediately told the others.

"It's been three days, not just a few hours," Thom reminds Haymitch.

"He's a victor," Haymitch counters. "He knows perfectly well how to manage on his own and he wants to be left alone."

The others consider this for a moment but still look unsatisfied.

Haymitch's suggestion that Peeta doesn't want to be anywhere near us refuels the hatred within me, squashing out the worry and guilt. If Peeta wants to be left alone, I'll do everything I can to hinder the search efforts being organized by the friends he takes for granted.

"Haymitch is right," I say. The weary man looks pleasantly surprised by my support. "We haven't even checked inside the bakery or the outskirts of the village. I bet he's hiding in plain view."

I don't believe what I'm saying for a second. There's too many places to go outside the fence. But Peeta doesn't deserve to be found. If he wants to run away to another district or hide out in the forest with no consideration for the others, let him.

When he's starving, I hope he remembers how much he depended on me to survive during the games.

There's a long pause before a member of Plutarch's crew, who were ordered to put down their cameras and help find Peeta before his big interview in a few days, speaks up.

"I guess we should rule out those possibilities before we launch a full-scale search," he says.

Greasy Sae begins to nod slowly. "Don't want to go worrying people if we don't have to." Haymitch grumbles something under his breath.

They begin to list different places to look. The other houses in Victor's Village. The old mine entrance and slag heap. The newly built homes near the square. The abandoned, half-demolished houses of the Seam, especially mine. The locations are divvied up among the different people. Not one of them asks me to join them.

"Haymitch, would you be able to check-"

"I'm staying at my house," Haymitch says flatly before any other places can be suggested, "so someone will be waiting for him when he comes back."

"You just want to stay in while everyone else does the work!" I accuse Haymitch as lowly as I can. "If he comes back, I can handle it."

If Peeta returns, I don't want his first encounter to be with Haymitch. The man still thinks he's our mentor, but I don't think he realizes how our thoughts of him have changed since our time in District Thirteen. Haymitch is aging and unwilling to help a soul, especially himself. How could he possibly manage to talk Peeta down?

Then again, I have no interest in seeing him either. Maybe it would be better if a site worker found him hiding out somewhere. I hate Peeta so much right now for putting me in a situation in which I'm forced to worry about his physical and mental safety.

"I really don't think you can, though." Haymitch makes no effort to be quiet. "You'll probably start screaming the second you see him, then where will that go?"

I'm not so taken aback when Haymitch says such things, but the words tear through me when Bristel says "Just lay low for now, Katniss."

Then they're all gone out into the district again, searching for Peeta, leaving me with nothing.

* * *

I'm gone before the sunrise, long before Greasy Sae comes over to make me breakfast.

Though they were up late into the night searching the homes nearest Peeta's, Bristel and one of the cameramen are back again to search the rest of Victor's Village. Each time they called out his name into the night, it echoed in my head like the sound of a thousand drums pounding. Long after they left last night, I could still feel it in reverberating in my skull.

I wait until I'm sure their backs are turned away from me before I scurry across the clearing between two houses, holding my bow tight to my chest. I already feel sick with exhaustion, but I know I won't be able to sleep. The never-ending night has proven that to me.

It's been a long time since I've been hunting this early, either because I was too depressed to pull myself out of bed or too content to bother trying. This is the time I used to get up when I met Gale in the woods, when the best game is just coming out and not fully aware of its senses.

Keeping in the shadows gets harder as I near the fence at the Meadow. Construction workers are already leaving their homes, hoping to get as much done as they can before the blistering heat sets in. Even in September, this district can get too warm for comfort.

"Heading out?" I cringe when I hear the voice call out behind me. It sounds worried, a bit suspicious even. Thom is in the the square again, this time by the Justice Building, as his team gathers to continue creating our new government headquarters. It will be the same as the old one, of course, but hopefully filled with much different types of people.

I give up a quick thumbs up. "Just checking the snare lines!"

With that, I duck in between the boards covering a hole in the fence and into the woods, not bothering to wait for a response. With Peeta gone, all of my actions will be in question. If I hadn't been discovered now, then I would have been when Greasy Sae came over to make breakfast, so did it even matter?

I hadn't really thought to check the snare line until now, but it isn't a bad idea. The lines haven't been checked in weeks, so some of the meat will be no good, but I'm hoping for some fresher kills. I need to bring back plenty so the others will know I've been good and busy, not thinking about Peeta.

I've got to rest less than a quarter of the way down the snare line. My body is trembling with exhaustion, but my eyes are still on the lookout. Searching for snared rabbits and squirrels, for larger game like deer wandering about, and though I'd never admit to it, for a stocky blond man, alive and fumbling around loudly enough to scare off the animals.

Right now I see nothing. I am utterly and truly alone.

After a long while, a ray of sunlight breaks through the trees and hits me square in the face, giving me the motivation to get on my feet again. I'm constantly reminding myself that these woods are my oasis, the one place I can forget the world. No matter how many times I tell myself that, my demons are following me, even out here.

As the snare line delves deeper into the forest, I finally start to gather up some prey. I find two hares, a raccoon, a squirrel, and a woodchuck, but only three of the five are acceptable. As I go to collect the other two, I realize that the meat smells putrid and is starting to fester. I hold my breath and chuck them as far away from my usual path as possible.

The line ends in a clearing. I sit down to skin my haul beneath the thickest, tallest tree. I'm almost halfway done with the raccoon when I see it come strolling into view.

It's a muscular wild dog with thick tufts of gray fur. He's got his head down and he surveys in ground around him with interest. I'm surprised to find him alone when such animals usually travel in packs, but I don't dwell on it too long. His solitude works to my advantage. I manage to get my bow raised without him noticing. The shot lines up perfectly.

"Gotcha," I whisper triumphantly.

It was a stupid, overconfident move on my part. Just as I let my arrow fly, he notices me and quickly diverts his body away from the clearing. The arrow grazes his back leg but does nothing to slow him down as he bounds out of the clearing.

Cursing to myself, I jump up and sprint after him, collecting my failed arrow along the way. My actions go against everything I've learned in my years as a hunter. Wild dogs are extremely fast and our loud, quick movements are bound to scare off any other prey in the area, but I can't let him escape.

I can't tell how far I've run, how many off-the-mark arrows I've used up by the time I've finally lost him. I double over in exhaustion, trying to steady myself as waves of heat and sweat roll over me. I wonder how many creatures hear me gasping for breath and run away.

The faint snapping of a twig in the distance catches my attention. As if to gloat, the wild dog walks across my path about a hundred yards away. He knows I won't follow him. Instead, I watch him saunter through the trees, jealous of his ease and certainty.

That's when I see the smoke.

I make a jagged path toward the thin line of smoke rising up between the trees until I'm surprised to find myself in a familiar place. I've never come to the lake this way before. The wild dog seems to have lead me around to the other side.

I can see the old shack where my father brought me as a child on the opposite side of the lake, where so many wonderful and horrible moments have occurred since. Sure enough, barely visible lines of smoke pipe out from the chimney.

My feet cannot carry me fast enough. I'm fueled by suspicion and curiosity and worry and hate, but mostly by a protective instinct that reminds me that this small building is a sacred, special place now marred by intruders.

I pull an arrow from its sheath as I approach the building, but no one seems to be moving inside. I manage to peer in through a small, high window on the side of the shack. Inside, all my fears are confirmed.

Peeta is stretched out face-down on the straw mat, shirtless and still. I can see his body rise and fall slightly as he sleeps, beads of perspiration clinging to his back. Embers from a poorly smothered fire release smoke and a few fishbones are piled up next to his resting place. A small rucksack sits next to his feet.

I open the door with a bang. When Peeta is startled awake by the noise, he sits up to find my arrow pointing at his head.

"How the hell did you find out about this place?" I yell, so consumed in my fury. This spot belonged to my father, to my family. How dare Peeta not only run away from his friends, but do so to come here?

"What the hell are you doing, Katniss?" He cries out, looking frantic and disoriented as he takes in the scene.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him again. Considering the terror in his eyes, I half-lower my bow so that it's still easily accessible, but no longer pointed directly at his head.

Peeta gives me a weary, unconcerned look. He sits up on the mat, crunching his legs up, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

"I didn't expect you to show up here," he groans.

I let out a short, unhappy laugh. "And why wouldn't I? You know I come out to the woods! My father showed me this place."

"Well, I never knew that." Peeta removes one hand from his face and looks cautiously at me. "You never told me."

I had never stopped to consider this. Peeta was not here in hopes that I would find him. I never even told him about this place.

"How did you know this even existed, then?" I question suspiciously.

Peeta looks up at me and shrugs. "They showed me a tape back in Thirteen. You were here with your crew. You were singing."

_Are you, are you coming to the tree?_

"They told me it was recorded just outside of Twelve. Asked me if I remembered that place." He chuckles angrily to himself. "I didn't, obviously. Took me almost a full day to find it."

I briefly recall Haymitch once telling me that Peeta had seen a recording of me singing the song. He told his doctors that it reminded him of my father. It was the first time since his hijacking that he'd made a connection to me without going ballistic.

I wonder if this lake and cabin had the same effect. Maybe he came here because, even though he knows I've been here, he never explicitly connected it to me. But that doesn't mean he's off the hook.

"And you thought this would just be a nice little place to hide out?"

When Peeta looks up at me again, a different man is staring at me. This man is not angry like I'd expect him to be, but jaded and apathetic. He's a man who had given up on the world.

"Why do you care?" He accuses. "You don't want to see me anyway."

With this, I finally leave the doorway and move inside quickly, almost charging at him. I stop only inches away, throwing my bow down on the straw in frustration.

When I reprimand him, my voice is higher and more shrill than I mean for it to be. "Well, everyone else is looking for you, you selfish bastard!"

I pause for a moment, then decide a little embellishment can't hurt. "They've got a great big search party looking for you! Sae is worried sick! Meanwhile, you're out here feeling sorry for yourself because I walked away from you one night!"

Peeta's face flashes to concern for only an instant, then turns steely again. "They're better off without me."

So this is how true, sinking guilt transforms Peeta. How I have made him become.

Yet his abandonment and sulking only serve to justify the hatred that I've felt for him over the past few days. Maybe all this time that I was so busy trying to save Peeta, I ignored what was right in front of me: a weight the pulled me down and only complicated one of the most trying times in my life.

"Fine," I spit my words at him. "If we're all better off, then just go to another district."

I watch his reaction, then offer up my biggest lie so far. "But if you're not back by the time Plutarch comes for the interview, he's promised a national news story headlining your disappearance. And trust me, I won't let anyone know I saw you."

"Why can't you people just leave me alone?" The yell comes as a big of a shock. It's an outburst which leaves him weak and crumpled again.

I allow myself to get the closest I've been to him since I barged in here. I can see his strained muscles, the sweat collecting on his brow, the slight quiver of his arms.

"Is that really want you want? To be left alone?" I try to keep my tone steady, but an unstable rush of emotion is threatening to break through at any given moment.

"I want to be out of this," he replies in a short, jagged breath. I'm thrown back in time, into a bloodstained apartment in the Capitol. Peeta had not used the same exact words in his semi-hijacked delirium that day, but the sentiment was almost exactly the same.

Rather than propel me to try to save him as it did before, this time it has the opposite effect. We are not in the middle of death and destruction anymore. We are back in our district, lucky to be alive. Back during the war, I dreamed that he would have a life after Snow's death. Watching Peeta take it for granted makes my newfound dislike for him boil into loathing.

"You want to be out of this?" I repeat, emphasizing every word angrily. "Get yourself out of it!"

I stand up quickly, longing for something to kick besides Peeta. I send his pile of fishbones clattering into a wall before bending back down next to him.

"Leave! Start a new life! Or better yet, realize how damn lucky you are to be alive! Realize how many people died for you! Go back to the district and apologize to your friends and maybe, just maybe, try to make things up to me instead of wallowing!"

The words taste bitter coming out of my throat. It takes me a moment to discover why I'm so struck by what I've just said. How hypocritical I am.

Peeta doesn't seem to realize. His neck stiffens and his head begins to raise up slowly. His eyes are fierce and penetrating as they meet mine.

"After all you've done to me," he says, his voice deeper and more certain than usual, "you still think that I should be trying to make this up to you?"

"Yes," I tell him with as much conviction as possible, though the distrust in his voice makes part of me think otherwise.

What happens next is so sudden and unexpected that my senses blur into chaos. Peeta's lips are sweltering when they meet mine. The heat from his body scalds my hands when I dig my nails into the flesh on the back of his neck. There's a soft thump as I push him down onto the itchy straw mat. Without hesitation, he lifts me up and flips me over onto the mat, continuing his assault of sloppy, feverish kisses.

We're restlessly biting, clawing and pulling at each other without any concern for each others' well-being. I don't care if I hurt Peeta. I want him to feel the fury and frustration I do. If he hurts, then my message will be heard all the better. I'm not doing this because I care for him or even because I want to impress him.

This isn't love. This is confrontation.

The power struggle only goes on for a few minutes, the two of us rolling around like wild animals trying to subdue each other. Before I can even justify why I'm doing it, I've got Peeta's pants down around his ankles. A heartbeat later, I somehow end up bent over with Peeta behind me.

"The painting wasn't about you. It was about Prim, about people find peace in death," he leans over me and whispers into my ear, thick and irritated, "and I'm not going to apologize just because you're too stubborn to see that."

I don't respond to what he has to say. There will be plenty of time to consider it later. Right now I find myself totally consumed by spiking lust and sheer adrenaline.

When he plunges into me, I feel victorious. It's satisfying, but not just physically. Peeta can't stand me just I can't stand him, but he still wants me. He can complain about me all he wants, but he still owes me this much.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He whimpers, again getting no response.

Our bodies move fast and frenzied. Peeta never places his hands on me. We never move to look at each other. The only communications we have are the groans and sudden, sharp noises that accidentally escape our throats after a particularly pleasing movement.

Though I feel an immense pleasure within me, I still haven't had my fill of it all when Peeta's hips begin jerking erratically under this strain of our intense pace. His finishing thrusts are hard and determined as he tries to hold back the sputtering sounds passing through his lips.

We fall flat on the mat, Peeta's worn body crumpled over me from behind.

When he moves away from me, I find myself lost again. I still feel smug, but now realize that I may have let the wrong emotions take control of the situation. I consider saying something, but there's not a single sentence that seems appropriate in this context. Eye contact is also ruled out. So I don't move, I don't speak and I don't even look as I hear him moving about, rustling his clothes around.

I finally turn around when I hear the door open. Peeta is fully-clothed in the doorway, watching me with a look of conflicted fury and fear. He clenches and unclenches his fists before he speaks.

"I hate you so fucking much right now."

Then he's gone.

I jump up and feel around until I've got a tight grasp on my pants. Even though I know there's no one else around, I can't bring myself to run out after him partially naked.

Even if I got out there quickly enough, what would I say? That I hated him with the same vehement passion with which he now hated me? That now we're even?

When I'm dressed, I race out the door and search for him in every direction. Not a trace. He's already disappeared deep into the woods somewhere. If I tried hard enough, I could surely track him down, but I simply don't have the drive to do it.

A small, young mockingjay watches me curiously from the branch of a nearby tree. It's as if he's waiting for me to say something. As my blurred vision eases back to normal, I notice a few other mockingjays moving through the trees.

The thought strikes me suddenly, but it only makes sense given the circumstances. I whistle a quick note and the mockingjays repeat. Now that I have their attention, I begin my assault.

_"Are you, are you coming to the tree?_

_Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me_

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."_

I wait until the verse starts echoing back at me before I take off into the woods, heading back toward the clearing where I left my haul. The mockingjays scatter in the same instant, spreading the song throughout the woods. It seems to get louder as other mockingjays pick it up and sing along.

There's no way Peeta could miss it.

I hope he feels it. I hope every last note strikes him like the blow from a knife jabbed in between his ribs. I hope it will remind him his hijacking and all other things he's put me through, all the reasons I can't stand him.

I know it's irrational and won't help a thing, but I don't care to be rational. I just want him to feel the same pain that lingers over me.

The song doesn't die down until I've gathered my goods and headed most of the way back toward District Twelve. I haven't seen or heard Peeta, but I'm satisfied with the results of my attack.

I wonder if he's since returned to the shack hoping to find me. Too bad I won't be there.

Though I'm raging within, I still have the good sense to stop short when I see movement in the distance.

It's not very often when you see something so precious and beautiful so close to the fence. They usually avoid human dwellings for their own safety, but she walks right in front of me, only twenty or so yards from the entrance to District Twelve.

The young doe is striking as it casually wanders about, exploring the world beyond its natural habitat. She's alone, but she seems perfectly content in her solitude. She's curious, hopeful even, about what lies on the other side of the fence.

I pull back an arrow and shoot her straight through the eye.

* * *

Dusk is settling over Victor's Village by the time I start to approach my house.

The walk home takes significantly longer when dragging a small doe, but this will certainly account for my whereabouts for the day and make for a few good meals.

Haymitch is sitting out on his front steps. I struggle to keep moving despite my sore arms and tired legs. I make no effort to acknowledge him, but his voice calls out after me.

"Good hunt today?" His tone is wildly suspicious.

"Clearly," I reply curtly, adjusting my full hunting bag and pulling at the doe as dramatically as I can. I'm trying to make it obvious that I'd focused my whole day on this task.

I don't stop to continue the conversation, so Haymitch begins to follow me. He walks slowly behind, never making an effort to match my pace.

"Funny thing," he calls out. "Peeta came back earlier this afternoon."

"Has he?" I say, trying to sound somewhat disinterested. After all, I've managed to keep a cool, impersonal attitude toward his disappearance since the beginning.

I decide that it's better to let Haymitch find relief in this moment rather than do so myself. "Just like you said he would," I praise him.

"That's not the funny part," Haymitch continues quickly without any regard for what I've said. He's been waiting for ages to get the words out. "He isn't much for conversation right now, but he's alive. What I got out of him was that he wasn't around town like you guessed. Apparently, he was out in your woods, gathering fresh berries for new recipes, he claims."

His next sentence is quick and deliberate. "It's amazing you two never crossed paths."

I look at Haymitch for the first time since he approached me, falsely wide-eyed and innocent. "I wish that I had seen him. Maybe I could have helped."

The look on Haymitch's face is all but comforting. He sees through my lie, but doesn't confront me about it. Instead, he murmurs "I just thought you should know" before pivoting on his heel and disappearing back inside his house.

A light goes on in Peeta's house as I pass. I stare at it, totally unfazed by the idea of being caught. I wait to catch a glimpse of his shadow, but there's none to be found. I will be given no reassurance tonight.

I know what I said to Haymitch was a lie. If I could do anything to Peeta Mellark right now, I certainly wouldn't be helping him.


	7. Target

Welcome back to another chapter! Has anyone ever told you that writing fanfiction is exhausting? Well, it is. I always fall about a week behind my goals for each chapter, so maybe if I aim to get the next one done in the week, I'll finish it in two! As always, I can't thank you all enough for your awesome, constructive reviews! They're really what keeps me going!

This chapter is a bit of a change in pace, but in a way that I hope you'll enjoy. You might even find it a little fun, which the last couple chapters definitely were not! Enjoy!

* * *

His coppery brown hair is slicked back neatly. His suit jacket is a deep purple. Were I not sure that the rebellion had succeeded, I would mistake him for a young Ceasar Flickerman. His eyes are bright. His smile is what I find most disturbing. It's glazed over, too wide and too enthusiastic to be real.

Plutarch Heavensbee smiles at me like a cunning thief.

"Are we sure that nobody else will be joining us today?" he asks once again.

I shake my head without saying a word. I try to make eye contact, but feel the need to break it every time I go to speak.

"I told you," Greasy Sae, who has come to supervise without Plutarch's permission, sighs from behind him, "Peeta was sick all morning. He said he'll be up for it tomorrow."

That's the best lie we've managed to come up with: disease. Plutarch doesn't buy it. He suspects that Peeta and I do not want to be interviewed together. He heard about the argument from his camera crew, but remains unsure as to whether or not the situation has dissipated. He actually had the nerve to ask me why I wasn't tending to Peeta.

But Peeta and I had come to an agreement, via Greasy Sae, to simply make up excuses to avoid each other as much as possible during Plutarch's stay in District Twelve. Lest we avoid rumors of a rift between the Mockingjay and her lover appearing on the national news.

Plutarch swivels around and gives Sae a flash of his brilliant grin, but turns back looking annoyed. "It's too bad that your mentor couldn't be there for this," he adds.

I look down at my hands. Plutarch brought along a single stylist who spent all morning bringing me back to Beauty Base Zero. Thankfully, nobody felt the need to transform my hair and stick me in a gown. Instead, only one embellishment was added: black nail polish with a fiery design on top, just like my first games.

I want to slap the grin right off his face.

Plutarch looks to his cameramen. "Are we ready?"

One of the men gives him a curt nod and Plutarch leans in toward me "Like I said, this is just a preliminary interview. We'll probably come back for a quick secondary run after we've talked to Peeta."

"Just try to act natural." He winks at me as he gives the cameramen the signal to begin shooting. If only he knew what acting natural would entail for me. It would be a disaster.

As the red recording light powers on, part of me desperately wishes that Cinna were still here. I need a friend to guide me through this.

"You can start by saying a little bit about yourself to the camera," Plutarch instructs.

I stare at the camera shakily, my mouth as dry as sandpaper.

"Hello," I manage to squeak out. "This is Katniss Everdeen."

My mind fills in the blanks from my old repetitive therapy. _I am eighteen years old._

"I was a soldier in the rebellion. I was in the Capitol on the day that President Snow fell from power," I repeat obviously, doing my best to stay away from my former title as "the Mockingjay."

_My sister is dead._

"I am currently living back in my home in District Twelve."

_My mother is gone._

A few sentences in and I'm already at a loss for words. I do my best to keep the tears from welling up in my eyes. I can't look crazy. Not today.

"What's been going on in District Twelve since the end of the war?" Plutarch prompts.

I turn back him, struggling to process an answer to his rather mundane question.

"District Twelve is doing well. There's only a few hundred people who have come back so far, but they've built new houses. The recovery team has done a lot. They've finished the Mayor's house and they're working on the Justice Building."

Plutarch's voice is far too cheery. "And the new bakery that you've set up with Peeta Mellark!"

My stomach drops at the mention of his name. The wild mix of emotions flusters me.

"I didn't do much with the bakery," I answer lamely. "I was just around when it was being worked on."

It's the truth, but I know instantly that it's not what Plutarch wants to hear. He leans back in his chair, looks back to ensure neither camera is facing him, then gives me a cautious glare.

"Oh Katniss, you don't have to be bashful!" He exclaims boastfully, spilling over with false enthusiasm.

Paylor may be president now, but she made Plutarch Heavensbee the Secretary of Communications for a reason. A number of lies were told in order to gain rebel support during the war. Plutarch was in charge of most of them.

Right now, he's assuring these lies must stay in tact for the sake of the new Panem. He wants me to recall tales of reconciliation and devotion to Peeta. It's as if I've been sent straight back to the games.

"If anything, I worked more on the memorial. Peeta and I spent weeks on it." I offer up the fakest of all smiles. "I can't show you the design until it's built. We want it to be a surprise!"

When he asks how Peeta is doing, I mention that he's started painting again. The vicious part of me wonders how uncomfortable Peeta will be when Plutarch asks him about his art tomorrow. I concede to these few facts, but offer him nothing more.

From there, the questions get harder. Plutarch asks me about District Thirteen, which I review favorably. He asks me to recount the last few days in the Capitol, after the Star Squad was attacked by the pod that killed Boggs. Though Plurtach has a good idea what happened, I realize that most of Panem has never heard the story. Five members of the Star Squad survived. There are only four of us who can recall it aloud.

The recollection is long and agonizing. Certain events are blurred so much that it's hard to tell the story in chronological order. Others, like Peeta's fit of insanity, I refuse to mention. I seem to be missing large chunks of each day. Who died where? I forget the mention the deaths of Mitchell and Messalla, then clumsily try to add them in, apologizing profusely each time.

My story ends in the middle of City Circle. Everyone in the room knows why.

Plutarch hangs his head in sympathy. "And that's where you lost your sister."

"Yes."

There's no room for discussion. It's a cold, solid fact.

"How are you coping, Katniss?"

It's such a pathetic question. He knows how I'm coping. I suppose this is the point where I'm supposed to break down and spill all of my emotions, but I refuse to do that in front of Plutarch. I don't respect him enough to let him see my tears.

When I don't answer, Plutarch helps me along again. "I hear you and Peeta have made a book."

The reference to Peeta doesn't even phase me now. I'm in a near vegetative state when I get up to fetch the book. I'd meant to do more by the time Plutarch got here.

"There's not much," I tell him, embarrassed by my lack of results.

The book opens to my parents' wedding photo, followed by copious notes on my father. Plutarch seems less interested in that than the next few pages on Prim, much of which he asks me to read aloud before having the camera focus in on Peeta's portrait of Prim.

My personal tragedy will be broadcast as the nation's tragedy. Another child lost to the cruel, unforgiving hands of our former regime.

I lose my grip on the edge of the page as I hold it out to the camera. I let out a soft gasp when I see the page beyond. It's a near-perfect painting of Peeta's parents, followed by stories written in a loopy, slightly messier handwriting. I never knew Peeta had finally added his entries. Perhaps he'd found some solace after all.

I snap the book shut. "You should probably ask Peeta about those ones." I offer him the book and he accepts with thanks. We discuss my future plans to add all of the rebels and tributes that we've lost since my journey begin.

Everything is flowing, it's almost pleasant, even. Plutarch is living up to his promises to make me look like a decent, stable human being up until the very end of his line of questioning.

"Now Katniss, I know this isn't something that you want to talk about, but the nation needs to know." He plays up every word to the point where I'm positive he'll be quoted on the show. "Why did you assassinate President Coin?"

My eyes dilate and my mouth hangs open. It's as if Plutarch has shoved a massive cotton ball down my throat, making it bone dry and preventing any sound from escaping.

He said he wanted me to look good. He said he wouldn't ask. I should have known better than to trust him.

Do I tell him, tell everyone about the double-exploding bombs? They'll ask for my proof. I don't have any. If the government denies it, nobody will believe me. I am, after all, mentally unstable.

My only option is to go along with the defense Dr. Aurelis had come up with for me during the trial.

"Alma Coin.." Something sticks in my throat again and I'm not sure how to continue. Plutarch watches me with feverish anticipation.

"She was corrupt!" I burst out, then slowly harden my facial features and get a hold of myself. "She was no better than Snow. She had no problem killing innocent people to take control of Panem!" I try to bite my tongue then and there, but one more word slips out.

"Ruthless," I spit out in anger with a shake of my head.

Before I continue on an unbecoming rant, Plutarch comes to my aid.

"Is it true that Coin had planned to create another Hunger Games with Capitol children?" He asks. I resist the urge to smirk. Plutarch knows it's true. He too is trying to distance himself from any involvement with Coin.

"Yes," I say confidently. "Just before Snow's execution, she told the victors what she planned to do."

I feel a little guilty not mentioning that the victors had voted on the matter and the majority of us, including myself, agreed to it. I didn't want to see Capitol children die. I wanted revenge for Prim. I realize now that I got it shortly thereafter on the steps of the City Circle, watching Alma Coin plummet down from the balcony where she placed herself high above the rest of Panem.

The urge to explain it all in fine detail burns my insides, but I understand the chaos that would cause. There's no way I could mention any of that now.

Plutarch's voice breaks my chain of thought. "Think how many children's lives you saved that day," he comments pensively.

I smile weakly and give a slow nod. So this was his strategy. I killed Alma Coin to save the lives of entitled Capitol children who were mere victims of circumstance. How noble I am.

Plutarch turns to his cameramen and gives them a whirling hand signal. The red lights on the camera go off. We're finally done. I look outside and I guess that not much time has gone by, but it felt like an eternity.

Greasy Sae examines me from a distance, gives me a reassuring nod, and promises to be back at dinner. Then she's gone.

As the crew packs up, Plutarch is forever talking to anyone that will listen.

"This anniversary special is really shaping up," he says. "The nation will be riveted." He turns to one cameraman. "Pack the lights but leave your camera out. I'll have to speak to Haymitch again, of course. His reaction is an integral part of the story line."

I grimace, both at the idea of Plutarch confronting Haymitch with a camera and his use of the term "story line" to describe my reality.

I decide to hide in my room the moment he leaves. I watch anxiously as they gather the last bits of equipment and begin to walk down the hallway. My heart sinks when Plutarch spins around to face me.

"Oh, one more thing!" His voice is as light and airy as ever. "Peeta had requested some pictures for this." He shakes my memory book in his hand carelessly. "I put them in the study on the way in. Annie Odair also handed me a few for you when I was in District Four."

"You talked to Annie?"

"I had to!" he says was aplomb. "When we look back in the history books, Annie and Finnick Odair's tragic love story will become the stuff of legend!"

I grit my teeth. He's far too excited to exploit Finnick's death to play on national sympathies. Once a Gamemaker, always a Gamemaker.

The seconds ache as I wait for them to exit. When the door softly clicks into place behind them, I'm off like a shot into the study.

Peeta had asked Plutarch for a significant amount of photos, but I'd assumed he would ignore the request. Yet the box sits on the desk where I'd had my first confrontation with President Snow. I grab it off the table as quickly as I can. A few photos fly off the top of the box, but I don't pause to gather them up.

Why did Plutarch have to put the box in the study? On most days, the room doesn't phase me. But today, after a painfully exhausting talk about death and rebellion and the Capitol, any other room in the house would have been better. I can't be in here.

I run into the kitchen with the box clutched close to my chest, thinking of how silly I would look if any outsider were peering into my home at this moment.

Once I'm safe in the bright light of the kitchen, I allow myself a few rasping breaths and examine the box. It's much smaller batch than I expected, but when I open it up, I realize that every picture has been selected carefully.

By the looks of them, the many of the photos from Thirteen were captured off video footage. There's Boggs, looking strong but somewhat concerned inside the makeshift hospital in District Eight. Another picture displays Castor and Pollux sitting side by side at the lake. Messalla directs a small crowd outside of Thirteen's Justice Building as Cressida prepares to interview Finnick in the background.

I flip over to the next photo and gasp. She's smiling up at me so bright and child-like, her hair frozen mid-bounce as she faces off with me in a dance. Prim. I never thought I'd find an actual photo of her, but she was in the propo from the wedding.

For once in my life, I'm thankful for Plutarch Heavensbee.

The tears are starting to sting my eyes. An emotional tidal wave threatens to spill over me, but a shriek rips through the silence, grabbing my attention before it comes on.

"I TOLD YOU TO STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME WITH YOUR CAMERAS!"

Horror shoots through my body as a loud crashing noise follows the screaming. I rush to the window to find Haymitch, furious and stumbling in front of Plutarch, who continues to invasively question him as if it were of the utmost importance. The cameraman is fumbling around on the ground where his video camera has fallen. Haymitch must have knocked it out of his hands.

I rush through the front door with very little thought. It took Plutarch a decent effort to make me look like a good person for this special. Too bad I'm about to ruin it.

"Plutarch!" I call out, but he doesn't seem to hear me over the commotion with Haymitch.

"The nation has the right to know what you were up to all those years!" I hear him tell Haymitch. "You were one of the top rebels in the revolution, the mentor of the Mockingjay! Don't they deserve to know how it was done behind the former government's back for so long?"

So that's why Plutarch wanted to talk to him. When I think about it, it seems so simple. Haymitch is perhaps the longest standing member of the rebel movement outside of District Thirteen. He's a loner and a drunkard, but he has information that even Plutarch himself is not privy to.

Haymitch fumbles back inside and goes to slam the door shut, but he's not very quick or strong. Plutarch catches the door with relative ease and tries to force his way past the threshold.

"Leave him alone!" I hear from behind me. The voice rings out louder and stronger than mine, catching the attention of the raucous crowd beyond us.

I whip around and see him for the first time since our encounter in the woods. Peeta looks worse for wear. He could easily pass as sick, like Greasy Sae had told the camera crews earlier, but upon examining him I know it's something else. He's exhausted and moody and struggling through the days, just as I am.

Days ago, I found relief in his misery. Today, worry and guilt threaten to crush me.

He walks right past me without a glance in my direction, but I follow close behind. Not for him, but for Haymitch.

The drunk aging man is shouting out an endless obscenity-filled rant about the new media and Plutarch's motives, standing just inches away from his new enemy. The video camera is trained back on him now, catching every moment of what will surely be aired as Haymitch Abernathy's psychotic break.

"Haymitch, stop!" I plead, quickening my pace toward them. Peeta tries to follow suit, but can't run as fast with his artificial leg.

"IT WAS HELL!" Haymitch shouts out as I reach him. "YOU COULD NEVER UNDERSTAND! You never lost anything in this war besides your cozy fucking apartment in the Capitol, Plutarch! The rebels practically catered to you and you destroyed their families, you prick!"

Before Plutarch can respond, I snatch his wrist and pry the door out of his hand. He's ready to defend himself against an attacker, but soon realizes it's me. He stops himself before he's recorded trying to beat down the Mockingjay.

He's still trying to find the proper reaction when Haymitch's door slams shut with a powerful slam. I look behind me to see Peeta's arm stretched out, having just pushed the door in place.

"Lock it, Haymitch!" Peeta's demand is met moments later by a few fumbling clinks of metal, then the sound of the door locking securely in place.

I stare back at Peeta, impressed but not yet willing to compliment him, until his gaze turns back to Plutarch.

"He told you he didn't want to be interviewed," Peeta says, a bit of authority rising up in his tone.

"Multiple times," I add, even though I know it's futile. Plutarch's unsure smirk in directed toward Peeta, not me.

"I just wanted to give it one last try," he sighs, sounded unconvincingly defeated. "Haymitch and I were such good friends! I thought he'd be willing to sure his experience with me if we just spoke face-to-face. I never dreamed I'd receive such a volatile reaction!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cameraman moving to the other side of the steps to catch our faces. I give a smirk of my own. "If you try it again, I'll put an arrow through your cameras."

Peeta lets out an amused snort behind me. For a brief moment, we are once again Haymitch's tributes in the dining car of the train heading toward our first Hunger Games, fighting back against the unfit powers that be. The only difference is that we're now defending Haymitch rather than trying to challenge him.

Defeated, Plutarch turns to his crew member. "Shut that thing off for now, okay?"

He turns back to Peeta. "You seem to have regained some strength! Maybe we can move up that interview after all. Perhaps we can head down to the bakery!"

"He's sick!" I remind him forcefully before Peeta has a chance to answer. I see him walking down the stairs as I give Plutarch a death glare.

The older man knows very well what we're avoiding, but refuses to acknowledge it aloud, at least while standing right in front of us.

"Of course," Plutarch responds, trying to sound positive despite the shakiness cracking through his voice. "We want you in top shape for the big appearance!"

It takes a conscious effort to keep from scoffing. I struggle to remember how Peeta talked me into giving an interview in the first place. I knew that Plutarch had always been a bit selfish and centered on public appearances, but I was too busy dealing with bigger issues to realize the extent.

Something comes crashing down in Haymitch's house. From the sound of it, I suppose he dropped a pan.

"You should start heading back to the square," I suggest to Plutarch. I'm trying to be kind, but I'm certain that the anger still comes across in my voice. He gives a quick nod of assent before making his way off of Haymitch's front steps. Peeta and I watch him suspiciously.

I turn away, relieved that soon Greasy Sae will be back again and my life will sink back into a state of semi-conscious normalcy. I won't be happy. I won't be doing anything of value, but I won't be dealing with Plutarch Heavensbee either.

"Katniss!" He chirps one last time. I spin around, frustrated and ready to snap. If he notices, he certainly doesn't act like it. "We'll need you to stop by tomorrow during Peeta's interview, if possible. It's really imperative that we get a few good shots of the two of you together."

My feelings are mirrored back at me by the look on Peeta's face. He stares at Plutarch in utter disgust from the foot of Haymitch's front steps. I turn back around, cursing under my breath.

"For national morale!"

"Go to hell, Plutarch," Peeta mutters angrily. I hear the telltale sounds of his artificial leg ever so slightly scraping the ground when he begins to walk back toward his house. A genuinely pleased grin spreads over my face for the first time in ages, though no one will ever know.

It's not until I'm back in the house that it hits me. For a few minutes, we were so close, Peeta and I. He wasn't hiding from me. I could have reached out and touched him if I wanted to. But he wasn't there to see me, he was sticking up for Haymitch. So was I. Someone had set out to harm us, but we took control of the situation. We were a team once again.

I miss him.

I try to quell the feeling by going back to look through the photos Plutarch had given me for the book. Staring down at such a beautiful photo of my lost sister stirs up nostalgia within me, but it doesn't overpower my newly discovered thoughts toward Peeta.

I place the picture down on the table and stare at it intensely, feeling greedy and ungrateful. How could I think so much about him while remembering her? Prim should always be first in my mind. Always. What a horrible sister I am.

I couldn't take care of Prim. I couldn't take care of Peeta. I can't even take care of myself.

I resign myself to laying on the couch, occasionally peering out at the setting sun until I hear the familiar sound of Greasy Sae's key scraping the lock to my front door. By that time, I've resolved to do something new. I want to make changes, but not because someone else has influenced me to do so. I need to regain control over my life, for me.

So when Greasy Sae gives me her usual partially toothless smile and walks into the kitchen, I follow her.

"Is something wrong?" She asks, confused by my appearance.

"No, not at all," I tell her. Despite knowing the old woman for years and feeling comfortable with her, my smile is small and unsure. "I just want to help."

Her expression moves from slight confusion to utter bewilderment. "Help... cook?"

"Yes," I say, but it doesn't feel sufficient. It requires further explanation which has some potential to be offensive. I let out a frustrated sigh before beginning. "You've been great to me. Really, you have! But it's pathetic that I have to have you cook for me," I pause before begrudgingly adding "or have Peeta cook."

I can't quite read the expression on Greasy Sae's face, but I decide after careful consideration that it is not offense or betrayal.

"I just want to be able to fend for myself," I offer up quickly, hoping to make my point clear.

The smile on her face is much wider and more genuine than the one she gave me upon entering the house.

"Let's get you started then," she croons, thumping a slab of venison on the counter.

* * *

By noon the next day, I've decided that the worst part of cooking is scrubbing pots and pans after eating. I've tried my hand at cooking venison stew and omelets with Greasy Sae. Neither were perfect, but they were edible.

I remain a work in progress.

It took me nearly two hours to convince myself to clean the dishes, which Greasy Sae has deemed my responsibility from now on. I stare out the window above the sink as I scrub, trying to catch a glimpse of Haymitch alive and moving about. All I manage to see are a few geese waddling around in the backyard.

Something tugs at me from inside, wishing that Haymitch, Peeta and I had gotten together to recoup and discuss tactics in dealing with this situation, just as we would have before the second arena. Now, they don't even think I merit a telephone call.

My hands feel soggy and look like prunes by the time I'm finished. I go to shut off the water, but my entire body freezes before I get the chance. At the bottom of the window, the top of a head covered in close-cut chestnut hair passes by, sneaking around inches away from my house.

I consider grabbing my bow, but decide the pan will do just fine.

I don't bother running upstairs to change out of my pajamas. I kick my boots aside before I open the door stealthily. If someone is spying on me, I'm going to catch them before they notice me.

I tiptoe down the steps, across the front of the house, and swing around the corner with my pan in attack position.

One of Plutarch's frightened men almost drops his Capitol-issued video camera on my feet.

"Are you spying on me?" I accuse, refusing to lower the pan from a striking stance.

Despite being much bigger than me, he's lost his nerves at my sudden appearance. "Of course not! We're getting exterior shots of Victor's Village to be edited in!"

"Why are you filming so damn close to my windows, then?" I know I should let him go. He's just following orders from Plutarch, but he's no better for doing so.

"This is the best angle into Mr. Abernathy's yard," he gulps. The look in his eyes tells me he's anxious to hear my reaction.

I stare him down as menacingly as possible. "You stay away from Haymitch."

When I turn around and follow the straight line along the primrose bushes to the front of the house, he regains his Capitol swagger and begins to follow me.

"Will we be seeing you at Mr. Mellark's interview? It's in one hour down at the bakery!"

I rip open the door and slam it shut without saying a word. That answer should suit him well enough.

With camera crews peeping around every bend, my house begins to feel like a prison. Hunting is a tempting option, but I can't convince myself to walk to the square and chance being spotted. I elect to hide in my bedroom, tucked safely under the covers until Sae arrives.

While we cook up boiled rabbit and peas, I tell her of the incident from this morning. She nods and never interrupts, but doesn't look surprised.

"I heard," she says, then adds upon noting my confusion, "Peeta told me."

Something that feels like a rock drops in my stomach. "How?"

Sae picks up a pea and pops it in her mouth nonchalantly. She shrugs. "I went over for his interview. Said he saw you walking about in your pajamas with a frying pan, threatening a man with a camera."

I let out a painstaking groan and for the first time ever, I think I hear Sae giggle.

"There ain't nothing wrong with that," she quips. "He was just worried about ya, that's all."

The words come as a strange comfort, though I try not to make my reaction noticeable. I consider asking how Peeta's interview went, but something holds me back. Plutarch could have interrogated Peeta about his time as a prisoner of war or his hijacking. Something could have been said about me. He could have had a meltdown again. In any case, I don't want to know.

There's not much for conversation tonight. The dishes are done before Greasy Sae leaves. When she's gone, I sit in silence for a long time before turning on the television solely for background noise. I think more and more about the rapid changes in my life over recent weeks. Anxiety flows through me until I'm stretched to the limit like a balloon filled with too much air.

When the night falls, it stands clear and crisp. Through my window, I can see every star in the sky. Every cricket in the surrounding woods chirps out an uneven melody. Its beauty only serves to laugh in the face of my depression and fear. I shut off the television to listen.

I listen to nature's symphony with eyes closed, occasionally humming my own song into the mix, until I eventually fall into a jagged, uneasy sleep.

* * *

The banging noises come as an unwelcome surprise.

I jump so violently that I nearly fall off the couch. For a moment I hide behind it, ready for a spray of gunfire or the effects of whatever pod has been triggered. When nothing comes, I slowly remember where I am.

Standing up, I see no movement in the shadows outside. The night is still dead quiet. I must have dreamed it up.

Just as my wired nerves begin to calm themselves, another string of stunningly loud banging begins. With more of my wits about me, I notice the source: the door.

As I march my way down to the door, I try to guess the hour. I can't pinpoint it exactly, but something tells me I'm up in the wee hours of the morning. How is it that no one will talk to me during the day, but someone thinks its a good idea to knock of my door now?

A gust of cool autumn air bursts into the hall as I open the door. It feels refreshing, but chills me at the same time. It's a warning.

When the door is fully ajar, I find myself staring into his blue eyes once again. He looks miserable. Surely he hasn't slept. I'd guess that he's been crying as well. I can see the goosebumps rising off his flesh in discomfort.

"I'm sorry to show up like this," he bursts out before I've even managed to take in the scene. "I just need to know..."

I'm perplexed by so many things. Peeta's disinterested attitude toward me just a day ago, his sudden appearance tonight. But I begin with his unfinished thought.

"Know what?" I ask. I'm pleasantly surprised by the gentleness in my voice, which usually comes out terse and cold without my permission.

"I need to know that you understand!"

I know what Peeta wants to hear. He wants forgiveness. He's explained his reasons for the painting twice now and both times I haven't offered him any signs of acceptance. I realize now that his reasons were genuine, but I'm not sure if it's something I can forgive.

"No one ever wanted anything to happen to Prim!" His voice is laced with anxiety and desperation that makes my chest ache. "I know you've suffered because she's gone, but nothing in that painting meant to suggest you were at fault, only that I thought she'd moved on, having accepted both her place as your sister and her death! I swear I never meant to say it was your fault!"

I put my fingers to Peeta's lips to keep him from rambling like a madman. The motion confuses him immensely, leaving him momentarily cross-eyed, trying to stare at my fingers.

I choose my words carefully, knowing that I'll probably never get the opportunity to explain this again if I screw it up tonight.

"Do you ever feel personally responsible for the death of your family?" I ask him.

Slowly, his hand reaches up and clutches onto mine, releasing his lips to speak.

"All the time," he tells me.

"That's how I feel about Prim. I was always afraid that other people saw it too."

Peeta's voice is raw with worry. "I didn't think that! I never-"

"I know you never thought that," i interject, hoping to calm him with slow, soft words. "I shouldn't have blamed you even if that painting really did mean to confirm my worst fears, though. I already think it everyday."

Peeta looks as unsure as I feel, so I finally say what I should have said the day after our initial argument.

"I should have let you explain."

As I look into his eyes, I can see the glazed over look of agony melting away. But instead of relief, his expression contorts into a mix of both need and uncertainty. He chokes on his words a little before he's able to get it out.

"You still care about me more than anyone in the world. You don't want this to be over. Real or not real?"

I don't know exactly why the rush of emotion that's threatened me for days chose to run in this moment, but the tears being to slide down my cheeks as I move closer to Peeta.

"Real," I whisper.

Our lips meet with such strength and promise that I'm taken aback by its power. Peeta presses up against me, leaning me against the doorframe and running his hand across the back of my neck as my arms wrap around him.

Every piece of my being feels alive again. A tiny bud of hope for us blossoms inside me and I promise myself I'll do better this time. I've missed him so much. I couldn't bear the idea of missing him like that for the rest of my life.

When the kiss breaks, neither of us says a word. Instead, we intwine our hands and I lead him back home, shutting out the world behind us.


	8. Hunter

You're probably wondering what the hell took so long, huh? Well, let me tell you... this chapter, guys. THIS. CHAPTER. It wants me to go insane.

First came the writer's block, but after about two and a half weeks, I beat that wall down and pumped about most of the chapter in a couple days. All I had to do was some editing later. When I went back to edit, the document wouldn't open. Apparently, the file was corrupted, which I've never seen once in my life. I'm too poor to pay the ridiculous price for file salvaging software just to save a chapter of my fanfic SO long story short- _I rewrote this entire chapter._ *headdesk*

I'll be the first to admit it's not my best work but I realllllllly hope it's good enough to justify the wait you all had to endure! Thanks again for being the best readers/reviewers in the world!

* * *

Plutarch Heavensbee doesn't call us for secondary interviews. He doesn't bother Haymitch again. Much to our surprise, he leaves District Twelve quietly without so much as a message of goodbye.

It seems fitting, in a way, that Plutarch learned the difference between friendship and convenience along the rebuilding roads of my district. For some time, his relationship with us was a convenience. He used us to earn recognition and a good, safe spot in post-rebellion Panem. We used him for information. But he never had the relationship with me that I do with Peeta or even Haymitch. He and I don't share a friendship.

The cool autumn air has been tainted by fierce winds that make hunting unbearable. I walk into the bakery and instantly feel relief in my frozen bones. In my hunting bag, I carry one measly rabbit, the only thing I managed to catch before the wind completely overrode my hunting instincts. In my hand, a gift awaits Peeta.

"Hey!" He calls out, his smile warming me just as much as the heat from the ovens.

I used to come to the bakery often before Peeta and I had our falling out. Once we made up, it felt awkward to step foot back inside, like I didn't have the right to be there anymore.

Slowly, I've acclimated back into a rhythm with Peeta. We wake up. We eat. We part ways. I hunt. He bakes. I meet him at the bakery as he closes up. We eat. We work on the memory book. Peeta stays the night. It's a succinct but efficient plan that keeps us from talking too much about the topics I want to avoid.

Maybe we should air things out. We should discuss our feelings and fears and hopes for the future, but it's easier this way. It's far less complicated.

Without saying a word, I rush up to the counter opposite to where Peeta stands and drop a small cloth bag down, grinning like a fool. The bag opens slightly, revealing fresh blackberries inside. Peeta grimaces knowingly, understanding the joke but not enjoying it.

When Peeta returned to Victor's Village after our rift, he told Plutarch's team that he'd gone off into the woods to find fresh berries for the bakery. The government has sent him extra rations of berries ever since the incident. As both a joke and a way to make up for my behavior during that time, I too have made a promise to always keep the bakery fully stocked with berries.

"Scones filled with blackberry jam, it is!" He has a tiny smirk across his face, but he's clearly faking his enthusiasm in the matter.

"I thought you'd like it," I joke. It's only then that a stack of papers marked with an official government seal catches my eye. "What's this?"

"Oh!" Peeta perks up as if he's got exciting news. "There's a new government regulation! I have to register as a professional!" He says the last word with aplomb.

"A professional _what_, exactly?"

"Baker, obviously," he says as he walks across the room to take a fresh batch of bread out of the oven. "They want to register different types of professionals in every district. Bakers, farmers, builders, chefs, nurses, butchers..." He turns and points a playfully accusing finger at me. "You'd be good for that one."

"I think not," I reply. "I gut my kills because I have to, not because I enjoy it. Are they looking for hunters?" Peeta shakes his head. Despite this, I make a mental note to speak to whomever becomes the new district butcher in an attempt to sell off some of my haul.

I think a bit about what's left of District Twelve before questioning something aloud. "What other professionals do we have left?"

"Well," Peeta says, strolling back over and popping a blackberry in his mouth. "a baker," he points cheekily at himself, "loads of builders, and a doctor. Apparently, they plan on training residents to take the other positions."

I wonder which of the residents struggling to get by on limited government rations will be chosen to restart a piece of District Twelve. Will the children of The Seam finally get a taste of life in the merchant class? Or will the district keep struggling to get by as a whole, even with job training?

"But apparently, we're going to elect a mayor first," Peeta leans forward as he speaks, acting as though he's relaying top secret information.

I look out the window at the new Justice Building. I had known for months that the reformed government planned for each district to elect representatives, but I didn't know when. So much time had passed. I was beginning to lose faith. Now the looming building is back and the officials are ready to get back on their feet, whoever they'll be.

"I've got something to show you," Peeta says softly from behind me, not noticing my momentary lapse from reality. He shuffles things around beneath the countertop before standing back up with a familiar object in hand: our memory book.

"I finished a page a couple hours ago, since it's been pretty slow in here." A gust of wind whistles threateningly outside, explaining the lack of customers. He flips through the pages slowly, one by one. "I'm really glad that Plutarch followed through on the pictures."

I shake my head slightly. "I'm not sure it was worth the hassle from him."

"The hassle would have come either way," Peeta quips confidently. "He was doing the interviews no matter what. This is just the reward we get for putting up with it."

Peeta flips the page one more time until I find myself staring down at Peeta's loopy scroll surrounding a stunning photo of Jackson at our base camp in the Capitol, watching over us like a mother hawk watching her hatchlings. Small ringlets of thick, dark hair frame her face, giving her an intimidating look. The image was likely captured just days before she died.

"It's great," I tell Peeta. Without my permission, my fingers gently run across the page. Peeta clears his throat awkwardly. I begin to wonder what's bothering him, but he alludes to it before I can ask him.

"How did your interview with Plutarch go, by the way?" The tension is thick in his voice. "I never asked."

My stomach sinks. This topic is one I had hoped to sweep under the rug until Plutarch's special program featuring the interviews aired. It's impossible to ignore now that Peeta's brought it into the open, but there's more than that. The way Peeta stiffens as he questions my experience, I can't help but wonder what happened to him.

"What did he say to you?" I question a little more fiercely than I should, completely ignoring his original question.

Peeta gulps down hard, but manages to keep his voice normal. "He asked a lot about you." He scratches at the base of his neck. "Made me describe those last few days in the Capitol."

"He asked me to do that too," I confirm, then suddenly realize what Peeta may be fearing. "I didn't tell him about the way you were, you know. The trackerjacker rage."

"I did," Peeta says, his anxiety now replaced by a hardened look.

"Why would you do that?" My voice squeaks a little in frustration as a protective instinct within me threatens to reveal my worry.

"I had to," he explains. "There were five of us who survived. Four of us are able to talk about it. You didn't say anything about my behavior, but what if Gale or Cressida did? Plus, we were filmed, remember?"

Peeta's logic makes sense now that I stop to consider it. The footage shown during the Capitol's hunt for us replays in my head yet another time.

"But don't worry, I don't think Plutarch will play it off like I was mentally unstable," Peeta adds after a long pause.

"Why wouldn't he?" I question, suspecting that to be exactly what Plutarch will do.

"Because..." Peeta's eyes dart down. He almost looks guilty. "He seemed to suggest that Prim came up with a cure for the hijacking while we were still in District Thirteen."

"The morphling treatment." My voice is barely a whisper passing through my lips.

"It helped," Peeta offers up, boosting the positivity in his voice for my sake. "It helped keep my anxiety at bay. It helped me function normally. But it never cured anything."

"I know. It's fine." My words may sound cold and distant, but it's only because my thoughts have moved into the devious mind of Plutarch Heavensbee.

The Mockingjay's sister takes refuge in District Thirteen, where she thrives in the medical field. She discovers the elusive cure to a top secret torture, thus saving her sister's lover. Then she dies a tragic death trying to save the lives of children. Even if most of it is a lie, the audiences will eat it up.

"He's using her," I announce, trying to hold back the pent up emotions that threaten to break through. "They're all using her."

Peeta remains remarkably silent as I work my way through it all. A half cough, half sob escapes my throat. His hand reaches out to clasp mine from across the countertop.

"That's why I killed Coin," I tell him. "For her."

Peeta's sympathy rapidly mixes with his newfound befuddlement, leaving him with a twisted grimace. After a moment, it smoothes out into a quiet look of sadness.

"I always thought you did it for me."

Something in my heart feels devastatingly heavy. I begin to nod rapidly, knowing that Peeta never had a chance to learn my true motivations behind it all. Tears begin to streak down my cheeks.

"I did it for you too," I say, knowing deep down that it's the truth. "I did it for a lot of things."

My cryptic answers aren't enough for Peeta, who stares at me with a mixture of confusion and concern. My mind races back to the moment I released the arrow. Coin stops suddenly as it lodges in her brain. She plummets to the ground. Snow's laughter is sinister yet somehow rewarding. Chaos begins.

I've never told anyone the real reason why I did it. The only person I ever considered telling was Plutarch, but I decided not to make myself look like a pathetic lunatic by discussing a conspiracy theory with him for a national news program. He would ask for proof. I wouldn't have any.

Peeta is different. Peeta will understand me. I feel a twinge of joy among my sorrow, knowing that the man with the lingering blue eyes in front of me would believe me even if it were an utter lie. He deserves to know.

It takes several deep breaths before the words come out. "I saw Snow before his execution. They were keeping him prisoner in his private quarters with the rose garden."

"You never told me that," Peeta mumbles, sounding a little hurt.

"I know. I'm sorry." Breathe in. Breathe out. Staying calm proves more difficult than I had imagined. "He told he was sorry about Prim, but he said something else. He said he didn't kill her. The hovercraft that dropped the bomb was in the possession of the rebels, otherwise he would have used it to escape."

Peeta's eyebrows jerk up dramatically.

"I know that the rebels had their own double-exploding bombs. I saw them being developed..." I pause quickly to think of the best way to skirt around names, "in Special Defense. I know that they planned to use them in the exact way they were used in the Capitol."

The look of worry never leaves Peeta's face, but he doesn't say a word, so I sum it up for him one more time.

"I think that Coin killed Prim and those Capitol children and the rebel medics. She did it because it would make the Capitol citizens side with the rebels. The plan worked briliiantly."

"How do you know Snow wasn't lying to get to you?" The question to end all questions. My answer doesn't sound reasonable, even in my own head.

"When we first met, he and I made a deal not to lie to each other," I explain, feeling weary at the silliness of it all. "He never lied about anything else. He admitted to every one of his atrocities. It's just a theory, but I believe him."

Peeta barely moves other than his eyes flickering all around the room as he tries to find something to focus on. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, opens them again, and stares back down at the countertop.

After a while, his words arrive low and thick. "So that's why you've stopped talking to..."

"It's not like that," I interrupt before he has a chance to say the name. "People change. There were lots of reasons why I don't care about him anymore, but that's not one of them. Whether I'm right or not, he didn't know how the bomb would be used. Only a handful of people could have authorized that one."

I thought my answer would suffice, but I can see the doubt flooding his eyes, drowning his facial features.

"Did you love him?" He asks.

"No." It's the first time I've felt confident in anything I've said since our conversation began. "That's just what Snow wanted you to think. Too much had happened. I knew I didn't love Gale long before we went into the Capitol."

Unfiltered truth spouts from my mouth, yet it's met by apprehensive stares. What more can I do to make Peeta believe that I could never be in love with Gale Hawthorne, even if my sister was alive and well? There was a time when I cared about him deeply, but our companionship was fading long before District Twelve was destroyed. I watched him become a militant shell of the boy I once knew.

Maybe in a different world, one without Snow or the Hunger Games or rebellion, I could have learned to love Gale, the first boy I befriended in my childhood. But things never pan out so easily. In this world, my life has been so much more profound and, time and time again, my heart has lead me to Peeta Mellark.

I long to see comprehension and understanding in his glances, but all that appears is a deeply unsettled dissatisfaction.

"I'm going to figure out what happened," he finally declares. His body moves from slouched over to standing bone straight, giving a quick nod in accordance with his words.

The path Peeta wants to follow makes me uncomfortable, even annoys me a little. I think that deep down, he wants to help. I know Peeta has another motivation though. He needs to know whether there's still something left between me and Gale. No matter how much I tell him the truth.

My emotions shift from hurt to fury to desperation so quickly that I can't even react properly. I can't tell Peeta what I'm feeling because I don't know myself. A possessive control inside my head tells me that he doesn't have the right to hunt for all the answers to my problems.

"Peeta..." I mumble, unsure of the direction in which my words are going.

"Somebody has to know, Katniss!" He tries to display strength with his body language, but something in his voice sounds desperate. "These things don't go on without a chain of command. _Somebody knows._"

"I've tried asking before." I wasn't able to get the answers. Trying to and failing only made the situation so much worse. I don't want Peeta to go through the same thing.

"I'll look in different places this time," he strategizes, just as determined as I was to find answers almost a year ago.

Even though it sends a shiver down my spine, I nod, giving Peeta the permission he needs to begin his investigation. We both stare at each other wordlessly until a movement near the doorway behind me reflects back at me in Peeta's eyes.

By the time my eyes adjust to see him, Thom is only a foot or so away. I nearly jump out of my skin.

"I thought you were both in here," Thom says enthusiastically. He claps his hands together and rubs them rapidly, trying to fix the circulation in his frozen fingers. "Come out here! I need to show you something."

Peeta and I exchange mystified glances. "It will be quick," Thom promises us.

Once Peeta puts his coat on and comes out from behind the counter, Thom practically pushes us out the front entrance of the bakery and into the sqaure.

Almost immediately my skin begins to protest against the whipping winds that make me feel raw, yet we continue to follow Thom as he ducks his head and hurries across the square with a bit of swagger in his step.

It's not until we're right in front of the new mayor's house that I raise my head enough to notice it. In the middle of the meadow, a heavy blue tarp is anchored to the ground, propped up in the middle like a tent.

As we approach it, Thom turns back to us, grinning like a fool.

"I think you two should be the first to see it finished!" He looks like a man enjoying a glorious celebration.

As he begins to unhook the latches on one side of the structure, Peeta takes my icy hand in his. Nothing needs to be said because even though the tarp hides it, we both know what lies beneath.

Finally, half of the tarp is undone and Thom cheerfully throws it over the top of the structure. And suddenly, our memorial shines in the middle of the otherwise desolate meadow.

A simple glass cylinder stands tall, creating a hopeful presence in the area. Around the entire cylinder, a thin piece of black steel curves to the rounded shape. The name of every resident who died during the rebellion is etched into that steel, including Prim and Peeta's family.

Perhaps the most stunning detail of the memorial sits within the glass cylinder, carefully engineered to look as if it is floating in the middle: A large golden replica of my mockingjay pin, peeking out from behind the loopy strip of steel.

"This is amazing," I sigh out. It's the first of many compliments for Thom and his team.

Despite the bitter chill I get, I walk straight up the the memorial and press my hand to the glass, just to make sure it's real.

Nothing will ever make the deaths of the people listed okay. Nothing will ever be the same after such thoughtless killing. But as I touch the glass, I see something clearly for the first time. The people buried here did not die in vain. If they could see all that we've accomplished as both a district and a nation, they might even be proud of us.

I don't know when I started crying, but when I come out of my deep thought, I can feel the hot tears warming my face. Peeta watches me with concern, then wraps an arm around my shoulder. I wipe the tears away, blaming my watery eyes on the blustery weather. We take a few steps back as Thom begins to latch the tarp back in place.

"We're waiting for a better day for the big reveal," he explains.

When we say goodbye to Thom and head to the bakery to close up, something inside me is different. I'm not happier than before. Nothing in my day-to-day life has been affected.

Instead, there's a feeling of being whole, like I've finally achieved something in my life worth mentioning.

* * *

I try to guess the time. It's six, maybe seven o'clock. Either way, it's far too early to be awake on a Sunday morning.

I find myself in a startled daze yet again, but I wasn't awakened by a nightmare this time. Sunlight streams through my bedroom windows and, much to my chagrin, Peeta sleeps peacefully next to me.

Before I have the time to doubt myself, the culprit announces itself once again with a long, shrill ringing. Downstairs, my telephone beckons.

Re-engergized by the shock of it all, I yank the bed sheets off myself in one swift motion, place my feet on the ground, and take off running. My feet barely touch the stairs as I hear the telephone ring once again and try to think of what's going on. There's only one person who calls me regularly, but surely Doctor Aurelis wouldn't be calling at this hour unless there was an emergency.

Finally, the telephone is clutched in my fist. "Hello?" I call breathlessly into the mouthpiece.

"Katniss?"

Something that feels like a giant chunk of coal drops in my stomach. The voice on the other end of the telephone is so familiar. I've heard it say my name so many times before over the years, but this time it's different. The word is voiced with a world of loaded emotions behind it. Fear. Regret. Maybe even a little caring.

"Gale?" I whisper, slightly displeased. I feel like I've woken up in the middle of one of his many traps.

"Hi."

The silence lingers between us for what feels like ages. As it does, my anger begins to boil up. How dare he call me now, all these months later? I gave up on him the day I killed Coin, the day he failed to keep his most important promise. I was so glad that the decision to forget our friendship seemed to be mutual. Now I'm not sure what to think.

"Is Peeta there? This is the number he gave me," he finally speaks up again.

Scenarios connect in my head and suddenly the call begins to make more sense. Peeta's new sources of information on Prim's death are the same as my old ones. Fear brims up over the anger momentarily, thumping in my chest.

"Peeta called you?" I ask. "About Prim?"

Gale lets out an odd breath, as if someone has sliced a knife across his chest. "Technically, he called The Office of Strategic Enforcement and Security. I'm just heading it up at the moment. His inquiry was handed to me since he's considered important clientele."

Strategic enforcement and security sounds a lot like Coin's "Star Squad" to me, but I gather some twisted relief knowing that a man of action like Gale is also forced to spend several hours dedicating himself to paperwork and investigations. I want to ask him about the job, but decide against it. I remind myself that things will never be the same between us, so there's no use in trying to discuss the new and improved life of Gale Hawthorne. The thought of it makes me moody again.

"He's asleep," I answer after careful consideration. "You can tell me and I'll pass along the message."

"I really should be talking to Peeta..." He explains, but I can already hear his voice wavering.

"Gale, it's me," I push. I know it's a cruel card to play, especially since I'm harboring bad feelings toward him. I don't want to talk with him, but I need the information he has. "I promise to tell Peeta."

Gale groans on the other end of the telephone.

"When we raided the Capitol's arsenal, we found several double-exploding bombs, so we know that both sides have them," he explains swiftly. "The design of their prototype differs from the one created in District Thirteen-"

"From yours," I correct him, uncaring of how heartless it may be.

"From _ours_," he amends. There's an uneasy pause before he continues. "Anyway, they're two different models, but since nobody saved the wreckage from the blasts that night, we can't compare to find out who the bomb belonged to. I thought of another way though."

"What?" I question, though I'm already afraid of the answer.

"The chemical compositions are different. We can test to see what chemicals were used," Gale suggests.

"Test what?"

"The bodies of the children killed in Snow's pen," he says clearly, as if it's a simple, obvious answer. "Not all of the corpses were claimed. Their parents probably didn't make it through. But skin and hair samples can be taken, so we can analyze them for certain chemicals and determine-"

"You leave them alone," I growl. It's the kind of low, fierce command I haven't given anyone since my time as The Mockingjay. How could Gale even think of doing such things? How can he be so non-chalant about it all?

"I promise it won't come from Prim," he offers, as if that helps. "I figured you wouldn't co-operate with the idea but you have to realize that-"

"I said no," I shoot back firmly.

"Aren't you the one searching for all the answers?" The frustration in Gale's voice is palpable. "Don't you want to find the truth so you can get on with your life? So you can stop hunting for the facts?"

"No," I say. There's a strange relief that floods over me when I realize that I mean it. "Not if that's what it takes. I don't need the answers anymore."

Gale lets out an aggravated grunt. His newfound selfishness astounds me.

"Knowing the truth won't change anything, anyway," I declare. I feel the words yank us apart as they leave my throat, the final nail in the coffin.

I'm surprised yet pleased when Gale doesn't argue with me. Instead, he lets out a sullen "uh-huh" and a long sigh. Then, just as I'm about to begin my goodbyes, he speaks again.

"So, Peeta," Gale begins with an uncharacteristic caution, "he's better now, for the most part?"

"He's fine." My statement is only partially true. Peeta will never be totally fine, but I don't want to explain that to Gale. "The doctors in the Capitol did miracles."

"And you're together now?" Gale asks. He sounds calm, but I know he desperately awaits the answer.

"Yes."

I hear him shuffling the telephone around on the other end of the line.

"Good. I'm glad," he decides after a quiet moment.

Dead air drifts in the space between us. I reach inside my heart and I know I care about him, but not in a way that I want to express. I care about the old Gale, so I'll always be curious about his life and his whereabouts. But I know he's been changed by unspeakable events and he's better off keeping his distance. I try to miss him, but there's nothing left to miss.

"Bye Gale," I say low and sweet into the telephone, knowing that there's nothing else left to say.

"Bye."

When I hang up the receiver, I feel energetic. I don't know it's from relief or anxiety or the mixture of both, but I find myself pacing up and down the hallway where my telephone sits on a side table, replaying the conversation in my head.

Finally, my emotions wane enough that I can make my way back upstairs to Peeta. Feeling sly, I slide in bed next to him and place gentle kisses against his neck until he rouses.

"Good morning," he mews playfully.

"You'll never guess who just called," I say to him now that I've got his attention.

Peeta suddenly seems wide awake. He props himself up on one elbow. "Gale Hawthorne?"

Feeling left out of the loop again, I let out a little snort. "Okay, maybe you were able to guess who."

"They told me that they would refer me to him," Peeta groans. "What did he say?"

I could give Peeta a dramatic account of the event that would take longer than the telephone conversation itself, but instead I decide to cut straight to the chase.

"He told me they could determine which side dropped the bombs by tearing up the corpses of the murdered children and testing to see which chemicals were charred into them," I retell with a gruesome edge.

Peeta's eyes nearly bug out of his skull. "I told him no," I assure him before they pop out completely.

He nods slowly, working hard to comprehend all the information in his early morning daze.

"We'll find another way," Peeta determines softly.

"No, Peeta. We won't." I try not to sound too harsh, but I can still read the hurt on his features. "This search needs to stop. When I was on the telephone, I realized that it's not going to help anything."

"You wouldn't feel better knowing?" He asks, sounding more concerned about my well-being than getting all the facts about the night the Capitol fell.

Something sticks in my throat and I desperately wish I had a glass of water on the nightstand. It's hard for me to tell Peeta exactly how I feel, but I know what this is about and I know what he needs to hear.

"I never wanted to be with Gale, you know. I never wanted him." I snake my hand around him until it's firmly placed on the back of his neck. Ever so slowly, I place a kiss on his lips. "I want you."

Peeta responds in kind and before I know it, I'm fully pressed up against him as he kisses me roughly and passionately, stirring up wild emotions within me that I haven't felt since our falling out.

He rolls me over onto my back and begins to kiss every exposed inch of my body with fervor. Before we give in to our instincts, Peeta whispers one last time.

"Always."


	9. Lover

Welcome back to yet another chapter! Can you believe there's only two more left?

I must admit, I've already got an idea for a Hunger Games side project once this fanfic is over. And I _maaaay_ have already started with it! It's a little empty at the moment, but I'm currently developing Victor's Village! It's not a news site- the goal is to discuss everything about the series: the themes, the characters, the fandom, the filmmakers, the actors, the rumors, etc. in a way that's smart, funny, and punchy.

Victor's Village is set to open up in mid-June and if you're interested in writing 1-2 original posts about THG a week, we're looking for writers! Send us an e-mail at !

Back in the land of Fan Fiction, this chapter was a fun one to write, even if it is a bit sentimental. For those of you asking about Katniss being pregnant: I covered the use of birth control in an earlier chapter, but made another reference here just in case. I'm sticking with the canon ending, meaning no babies until 15 years after the end of the rebellion. This fanfic will cover a little more than a year after the rebellion. If you're looking for something that covers the events of the epilogue in full, there are plenty of great fanfics out there that I'd be happy to suggest!

Thanks again for giving me such amazing feedback chapter after chapter! I hope you enjoy this one too!

* * *

Most mornings, I wake to find myself alone. I open my eyes and find myself entrapped in the type of silence that's either peaceful or unsettling, depending on my mood.

Peeta gets up, gets ready, leaves my house, and opens the bakery before the sun thinks of rising at this time of year. He does so with the type of slow-moving efficiency that rarely wakes me out of my sleep.

There are mornings when I still wake up confused, expecting Greasy Sae to be downstairs starting breakfast. But Sae doesn't come here to cook meals anymore. She and I had decided weeks ago that my skills were sufficient enough that she need not take the lengthy journey to my home to care for me everyday. After all, her business in The Hob has been booming. Despite her wiry hair, suspicious eyes and strange speech, Sae was also asked to register as a professional. Apparently, Panem has professional retailers and traders now.

As I force my feet into the very worn boots that Cinna once gave me, I can't help but feel a little lonely. Hunting has been good for me. It's perhaps the only remnant of my life before the Hunger Games that still matters. I do it because I love it, but I know I can't be a hunter forever.

I clutch my hunting bag with purpose today, unsure of what my life is worth once I put it down again.

It's a straight shot down the hallway to the front door from where I stand, but I find myself pausing halfway down to examine the only object in my path. The telephone stares back at me ominously. It hasn't rung once since Gale called weeks ago. I begin to wonder if Doctor Aurelis has forgotten about Peeta and I, but I decide that I prefer the telephone sit quietly in its place. Every time it rings is another chance for disaster.

I force myself to look away, preparing to streak down the rest of the hallway and exit the spot where the evil thing sits as quickly as possible, but something stops me. A blinding light hits me straight in the eyes, refusing to let me move forward.

The light reflects off a small object lingering on the floor of the study. Last I paid attention to the room, I found myself running out of it in a panic with the box of photos Plutarch provided for the memory book nearly two months ago. As I step into the doorway now, I can clearly identify what blinded me: the rising sun reflecting perfectly off the glossy surface of an upturned photo that flurried to the ground the day I first grabbed the box. I knew a few had fallen, but I forgot to come back and collect them.

Entering the room, I spot two more photos lying face down within few feet of the first. They've been waiting for me to find them this whole time. Tiptoeing as though I may disturb it from its sound slumber, I approach the upturned picture. It's hard not to gasp when I'm introduced to the beauty staring back up at me.

The baby's face is cherubic and soft, just as a happy child should be. His mouth is slightly open and his nose crinkled, giving him an amused look. He has newborn eyes that are endlessly gray, their true color yet to be determined, but I'd bet my life that they will be a deep sea green like his father's.

I reach down, flip over the photo, and read the caption aloud to myself.

"Finnick 'Finn' Odair Jr. September 27th." Annie's loopy scroll confirms it.

Once the reality of it all melds in with my newfound sense of wonder, I feel ashamed. I realize that in an effort to forget all about my mother in District Four, I also left behind Annie and the only piece of Finnick left in the world. I should have called her months ago to tell her how awe-inspiring he is. I consider doing so now, but decide to leave Annie and Finn to a serene morning together. It will have to wait.

As carefully as possible, I tuck the photo into the inside pocket of my hunting jacket. I keep him in the safest place I can think of. Close to my heart. I move lightly and cautiously out the door, almost afraid to disturb the child in the photo I carry with me.

My ears are immediately assaulted by the sounds of too many geese honking all at once. This was never a problem in Victor's Village until Haymitch decided goslings deserve more sympathy than he's ever given a human being. It's not my usual day to visit Haymitch, but it feels right. Something extraordinary has been discovered today and not even the constant annoyance of geese can sway my mood at the moment.

"Hey, give her a turn!" I hear Haymitch yell as I approach his backyard. As he steps toward a specific young goose and drops a piece of pumpernickel bread down to it, I have to suppress a giggle. Haymitch sees me just before I reach his gate.

"I don't think Peeta would be too happy if he knew you were feeding all the bread he gives you to your geese," I tell him, trying not to let my unusually perky mood show.

"I only give them half," Haymitch says, holding his jaggedly ripped portion above his head for me to see but never turning to look in my direction himself. "They've got to eat something."

I shake my head as I enter the backyard without bothering to ask for Haymitch's permission. "Geese are plenty capable of sustaining themselves, you know. They'll manage just fine without feeding."

Haymitch snorts sourly. "Well, I owe 'em," he offers in his own defense.

Part of me wants to start a pointless argument about a goose's ability to care for itself with Haymitch because pointless arguments make up eighty percent of our relationship, but a voice within me reminds me that I have something else to say.

"Did you hear about Finnick's son?" I ask.

Haymitch stops throwing his bread to the geese. He turns to me, looking thoroughly perplexed. He's completely caught off guard by the bittersweet news. "What?"

I reach into my hunting jacket and pull out the photograph. Haymitch stares at me inquisitively as I turn the picture toward him, then he takes several strides in my direction to get a closer look. It's hard to make out the expression on his face. One moment I think he may cry, but a small twitch later makes me sure he's about to lash out in anger.

"Annie calls him Finn," I tell him, hoping to calm the confusion Haymitch is buried under. "He was born at the end of September."

He moves back to his steps now, the photo and I following closely behind. A bottle awaits him there and he takes a mighty swig.

"Over two months." Haymitch's voice is low and gruff, irritated by the news. He holds his head in his hands for a brief moment, but the smell of white liquor is still easy to breathe in when he speaks. "Nobody tells me these things."

He's right, of course. Nobody tells him these things. Not even Peeta. Not even me. I take a deep gulp of air, trying to clear the white liquor taste from my mouth, and decide that a white lie can't hurt.

"I didn't know either," I embellish. "I had no idea before Annie sent me the picture." It's partially true. I had no idea until about a month before the baby was born. My knowledge wasn't much greater than Haymitch's.

He looks up at the geese again, his head still low as he mutters a single word. "Unbelievable."

Then the words begin to tumble out of my mouth, nervous and non-sensical. "I understand that Annie has had to make a lot of adjustments to accommodate change and she probably wasn't even thinking about share the news with anyone.."

"No," Haymitch ends my rambling swiftly. "I'm not blaming her. It's everyone else."

The silence lingers between us. I know I should let it sit like this for a few minutes, but I'm thinking too much to keep myself from speaking.

"But that's a good thing, isn't it?" I question. "Those other people aren't worth hearing from, Haymitch. They've done us no good."

The aging man nods slowly, his eyes focused on something off in the distance. This time, I let the quiet fill the void between is.

After a moment, he regains his voice. "We need to let go."

"Let go of what?"

"Them."

Haymitch brings the bottle to his lips again, but pulls it away before gulping any down. He holds it out in front of it, glaring at it as if all the evil he's ever witnessed is contained within it.

"I've been thinking about giving this a rest," he croaks out, shaking the bottle slightly. Its contents make a tinkering noise as liquid slaps against glass. I consider the possibility that Haymitch is joking, but I find no mirth in his eyes as he stares desperately at the bottle.

"So that's the last of it?" I point at the bottle hopefully.

"Well, no." Haymitch states gruffly. "I didn't say I stopped. I said I was _thinking_ about it."

I can't help but let a little smile creep across my lips. I know Haymitch would be angry, but he's too busy staring down his nemesis to notice.

Finally, there's a clinking noise as the bottle is placed down on the step. Haymitch releases it from his grasp with some difficulty.

"You should put that in that book of yours," he suggests rather unexpectedly, pointing down to the picture of baby Finn still clutched between my fingers.

"Oh yeah," I mumble back in a daze. "Definitely." It's all that needed to be said, but it's not all I want to say. "If there's ever anything you want to add into the book..."

Haymitch cuts me off with a shake of his head. "No. It's your book."

"It belongs to all of us," I say before thinking about how simple-minded or childish it may sound. Haymitch lets out an amused huff, but his face seems to soften ever so slightly.

"I just want you to keep that safe," he tells me, staring down at the glossy photo again. He looks both enlightened and tortured all at once. When he manages to rip his eyes away, I carefully coax the photo back into my hunting jacket.

When I say my goodbyes to Haymitch, he barely registers my words enough to respond. It's the kind of reaction he usually reserves for when he's dead drunk and on the verge of passing out, though I know that's not the case today. What enthralls me plagues him.

I make it out of the district and into my forest with little trouble, but I know this won't be a very successful trip long before I get there. Not just because of the onset of winter weather pushing some animals further south or into hibernation, but because my mind has been distracted by the face of a chubby baby who may someday have the stunning eyes of his father. The name they share sounds simultaneously sweet and sour as I repeat it over and over in my mind.

Finnick. Finn. Finnick.

My busy mind leads to careless actions. After I allow two squirrels and a raccoon to notice my presence and run off, I make my way to the snare line in search of animals that are already good and dead.

I'm two woodchucks and a possum in when my incredible selfishness strikes me. All this time that I've marveled at this new development, Peeta has remained at the bakery, blissfully ignorant. Surely he would want to know.

On the way there, I begin to worry as the sun sets behind me. What will Peeta think when he sees the picture? It's hard to imagine him being anything but positive, especially since I'd told him Annie was expecting, but Haymitch's sullen reaction has thrown me for a loop. Maybe news from the outside districts isn't as helpful as I thought it was, no matter how good it is.

Peeta is already closing up by the time I walk into the square. I can see him organizing the leftover confections though the large display window at the front of the shop.

He waves to me before walking over to unlock the door. A lump begins to form in my throat. I know it's irrational, but I'm worried. I reach into my inside jacket pocket and grip the photo, but I don't put it out. My smile comes out forced and uneasy.

"Are you alright?" Peeta asks as I walk in. I nod slowly, but there isn't much confidence behind it all. I realize now that despite all the happiness we've experienced lately, the nightmares and the flashbacks still come. I have to show Peeta, but what will that lead to?

Maybe tonight, our nightmares will feature Finnick Odair losing his life in a Capitol sewer while a helpless child cries in the background.

"I have to tell you something," I finally manage to say. Peeta looks perplexed for a moment, then a little more calm as he tries to mask his emotions.

I pull out the picture and place it in his hands. "I found it this morning," I explain. "Apparently, Plutarch gave it to us, but it fell onto the floor in the study and I just noticed it."

Peeta flips the thin paper around in his hands over and over again, looking from the face on the front to the name written on the back and to the face again. I watch his hands and feel oddly comforted by his actions.

"Finnick would have been so happy," Peeta announces after examining the photo for a long time. It's only when I heard the terse sound of his voice that I'm able to look at his face again. He looks as if he may cry, but the tears never spill out.

"I didn't know what you would think," I admit. I leave out the part about expecting we'll be haunted by this for weeks.

"I'm glad he's here," he replies, "for Annie." Peeta rattles his head back and forth quickly, trying to shake off a hidden feeling I can't see. "Finnick loved her more than anything and now she'll always be able to remember that when she sees their son."

It's an astute observation, but not one I can comment on. Instead, we stand next to each other in a warm, comfortable silence, staring down at one of the first positive effects of our rebellion.

"I can't wait to know what that feels like," Peeta whispers quickly, longingly.

My heart nearly freezes in place. My mind travels back to our time in the clock arena, where I imagined myself dying to create a world where Peeta could raise children safely. The image was much easier to swallow when I thought I wouldn't be around to see it, much less be intricately involved with the life of any child Peeta may have. Now nothing seems safe enough for that.

Peeta reads the sudden distress on my face and changes his tone to something a little less whimsical. "What?" he asks. "You don't want that?"

I hesitate, feeling the pressure. This could be a deciding factor in where the future will lead for Peeta and I.

"Not _now_," I grit my teeth as I speak. The unexpected worry in Peeta's eyes forces me to continue. "What if Finn's not as safe as we think? There's barely medical attention in most districts."

"There's a hospital in District Four," Peeta interjects.

"There's sure to be some Peacekeepers still on the loose. What if someone's stirring up a counter-rebellion and we don't even know it?"

"Most of the Peacekeepers surrendered as soon as Snow was captured or died shortly after. Even if they tried to rebel, their numbers are so small, it would never work." Peeta's words stream out with conviction now.

"Our government isn't even stable! We don't even have a mayor!"

"January 8th."

"Huh?" I question, finally breaking my rant.

"Voting for the mayor will take place on January 8th," he says, sounding surprisingly stubborn. "Thom told me. He's thinking about running. He said he wanted to talk to you about helping out."

"I don't think I'd be much help," I answer honestly.

"You'll have to talk to him about that, I guess." Peeta shrugs non-committally. "But I don't think you give yourself the credit you deserve."

"That's great that he's running though." I mean it. I really do. Yet it doesn't sound that way when the words leave my mouth. If anyone has proven that they have the gall to run this district, it's Thom. But the topic is too sudden a departure from the conversation Peeta and I were really having. Peeta looks sullen now, deep in thought.

"About the baby thing... I'm not saying never," I tell him even though every fiber of my being is screaming that I will never agree to bring a child into this world. "Just not now. That's why we take the precautions we do."

Peeta smirks. "Dr. Aurelis had you taking precautions long before we were doing anything."

"Maybe he knew before us," I laugh.

Thankfully, Peeta's sweet smile and firefly-bright eyes are back once again. "Maybe they all knew," he says.

The sentiment hits me in a way that only Peeta's words can. Confident and inviting. Strong but not smothering. I pull him into me and he wraps his arms around me, covering me in his warmth.

I can't help but think they knew. Peeta. Haymitch. Plutarch. The Capitol audiences. Maybe it wasn't just a ploy for sympathy to them. Maybe they all knew we'd be together before I was ready to even think about it. Maybe some relationships are so meant to be that anyone can predict it.

"It's not that I don't want the things you want, Peeta," I sigh to him gently. "But right now, isn't love enough?"

"Love?" Peeta pulls me back enough so he can look at me.

I said the word unintentionally. I've never been one to express such emotions, not even with my own family. But it would be silly to deny that it's what I truly feel for Peeta after all that we've been through. I can hear my adrenaline coursing through my veins and I feel embarrassed by the shock of the moment, but everything that's happened since the reaping has pushed us to his very moment. I know there's no turning back.

"You have to know by now that I love you," I try to say with gusto, but it doesn't sound very eloquent. I sound meek instead. I tense in his arms as I speak, like a sudden whiplash may throw me from the spot where I stand.

Instead, all I feel are Peeta's lips meeting mine in a long, firm kiss that leaves me equal parts dizzy and insatiable.

"I love you," he tells me as he parts my lips in between heavy breaths. "I love you. I've always loved you."

Something in my mind reminds me that we're in front of a very large window and any member of District Twelve walking through the square can see us, but Peeta is kissing me with such ferocity that I don't care. Let them see us.

I clutch Peeta without care, trying to make him feel how much I love him. If I never get the chance to say the words again, I will make sure tonight that he knows forever.

It takes the feeling of Peeta's warm hands against the cool skin on the small of my back for me to finally say "We need to get away from the window."

"The back room," he mumbles back, his lips still intertwined with mine. Before I have time to start moving, Peeta lifts me off my feet and begins to carry me away. A maniacal laugh escapes me until he props me up against a wall in the small, windowless storage area.

It's amazing how, despite the time we spent away from each other, Peeta never forgot how to touch me. How a palm to the small of my back makes me arch up toward him. How my whole body quivers when he massages the back of my neck.

I move more clumsily, slipping my hands under his t-shirt and grasping at different parts of his back and torso. Though it's not quite as sexy, the groan Peeta lets out tells me he doesn't mind.

Our legs tangle tightly together, making it hard to stand up straight but very easy to feel Peeta's need pressing against me. My hand snakes down between our bodies until it slips under his pants.

It's me who lets out the gasp when I finally touch him. Peeta chuckles.

He moves his hand down to my most sensitive area and presses roughly over my clothing. I nearly beg him to touch my bare skin, but I don't want to show vulnerability right now. Instead I make a conscious effort to kiss his mouth and neck passionately, gently squeezing at every bit of him I can touch.

Finally, it's Peeta who gives in. "I want you," he whispers desperately, as if he's not sure he'll get what he wants.

Within seconds of hearing him, I'm pushing his pants as far down around his hips as I can without breaking our kiss. He begins to do the same for me, awkwardly fighting with the buttons on my jeans. It aches to feel him so close but not yet have him.

When our clothes are finally removed, Peeta lifts me up against the cool surface of the wall and after some awkward maneuvering, we connect. A simultaneous sigh of ecstasy fills the otherwise quiet room.

Peeta sets the pace, far too slow and agonizing to quickly satisfy my wants, but a delicious torture that sends a shock through my body with every deliberate move. A little grunt escapes Peeta with every upward thrust.

We move like this for another minute or so, but things get clumsy. Holding me up takes too much. The angle is too awkward. But neither of us are nearly done with each other yet.

"The floor," I half-suggest, half-plead.

It's only as Peeta carefully lowers me into the freezing cement floor that he takes full stock of the situation.

"I've got to make more of an effort to get you to a bed before doing this," he jokes.

"I don't care," I tell him quite honestly as he begins to thrill my senses once again. "I'll be with you like this anywhere."

"Anywhere?" Peeta pauses for a moment to look at me and lift his eyebrows.

"Anywhere where other people can't see," I amend, though I'm sure that's not what he meant. I press myself up toward him impatiently. As much as I want to feel the ultimate results, part of me cannot wait to see Peeta give in to our passions.

"I love you," he proclaims before sucking gently on the base of my neck and moving once again.

Suddenly, Peeta's careful, leisurely pace makes sense. This doesn't need to be frantic or rushed because this isn't just sex, it's the physical expression of something more. It's painstaking but deliciously satisfying all at once, but that's what love is.

"I love you," I reply. We repeat it again and again, never quite getting sick of the phrase pouring from our lips.

It's easier to match his rhythm once I realize this. I roll my hips up in a way that I know will make Peeta feel the same waves of frenzy that I feel. In response, he bends his head down toward my breast and sucks hard, eliciting a loud moan.

Just when I think we can continue like this all night, kissing and bitting and scratching and sighing, I feel it. The panic and rapture has begun inside me, threatening to consume me whole.

"Please, Peeta!" I cry out.

He doesn't move much faster, but his thrusts come harder and stronger. I half-heartedly beg for him to continue. Finally, I dissolve into a fit of wild pleasure, unable to hold back any longer.

"Fuck," I squeal out, caught up in the moment.

Peeta doesn't stop moving. With my body convulsing around him and then slowly cooling down, he continues steadily until he too is tensing as he falls into oblivion. He jerks against me powerfully, giving me everything until he has nothing left to give.

"I love you," he repeats again with a laugh and a smirk.

As a lay sweaty and naked on a hard floor next to the only man I've ever even thought about loving, I don't understand how anyone could ever get sick of hearing those words.


	10. Fiancée

It's hereeeee! This chapter largely covers Plutarch's largely discussed anniversary special on the rebellion. Let me tell you, it is difficult to narrate a television program in writing! I hope the writing style doesn't wear down on you too much!

I'd also like to announce my new satirical blog discussing everything Hunger Games, victorsvillage[dot]wordpress[dot]com is in full swing! Please feel free to visit, comment, or friend the website on Twitter, Facebook, or Tumblr! If you think you'd be interested in contributing a blog, either one time or regularly, send an e-mail to me at thevictorsvillage[at]gmail[dot]com!

All we've got left after this chapter is the epilogue! I know I've been writing this for months, but it's gone by so quickly! I thank you again and again for all of the amazing support, especially those of you who have followed the story and given me feedback since the early chapters. You're so incredible!

* * *

In his weary state, Peeta drops a box to the floor with a resounding thump. He lets out a long sigh before settling down next to me on the couch.

"Was that the last of it?" I ask.

An even louder thump echoes from behind the couch, making me jump.

"No," Peeta says. I put one knee on the couch and whirl around to see Thom standing there with a sly smirk on his face. "That was the last of it."

I'm happy to see Thom, but too weary to speak to him. I know he's been meaning to talk to me about his campaign for mayor, which is exactly why I can't look him in the eye right now. What could he possibly want from me? I can't be anyone's Mockingjay again.

"I didn't know you were still helping," I offer lamely, brimming with false enthusiasm even though Thom has been carrying boxes into my house for the last hour or so.

"I'm just heading out, actually," he shoots back, unaware of my strange mood. "I'm going to watch the big program from home! I was just hoping to grab a quick word with you first."

I try to keep the muscles in my brow from tensing into a look of discomfort as I nod my head.

"As you might have heard, I'm on the ballot for mayor in a couple weeks-"

"I don't think I'd be much help," I blather out before I can stop myself. I've told Peeta the same sentiment so many times on this topic that it slips out naturally.

Thom jerks his head back quizzically. "I don't really need help," he says. His voice is thick with confusion. "Last I checked, I'm the only person running."

The weight of my own sheer stupidity tumbles down over me like an avalanche. "Really?"

"Yeah. The government requires you have a job to run, which narrowed down the field pretty significantly." Thom does several quick, tiny nods as he speaks, making him look as flustered as I feel.

"Oh."

Thom and I engage in the most awkward of staring contests for a few breaths until he finally feels it's safe to get back to the point.

"Anyway," he breaks the silence, "I was thinking about all the officials I'll have to hire now that the new Justice Building is open. I was thinking you might be good for some of the positions, if you're interested."

I only shrug a little in response, so Peeta keeps the conversation going for me. "What are you looking for?"

"Oh, almost everything!" Thom's enthusiasm is evident. "Researchers, project managers, inspectors, clerks, event planners, secretaries... I can't even keep track of it all." He focuses his eyes back on me. "I know none of it sounds particularly glamorous, but-"

"I'm not looking for anything glamorous," I cut him off a second time. Realizing how rude I've been, I give him the most genuine smile I can manage in such a situation. "Thanks for telling me, Thom. I promise I'll let you know soon."

"Great!" He replies.

Thom exchanges a few more words with Peeta before saying goodbye and letting himself out.

When the door clicks shut, Peeta snuggles into the cushions of the couch, resting his feet on a cardboard box containing bits of his belongings, all of which he's just brought over.

"I live here now," he sing-songs smugly.

"Not until you unpack," I tease back. At the same time, I can't help but take in the rightness of it all. Peeta spends nearly every waking moment outside of work in my home. It's only fair that the place he treats like home actually becomes his home.

The urge to ask him to move here for good came late one night as we headed up to bed. I was so frightened that Peeta would cower away from the idea of something so permanent, but he showed no hesitation. Instead, he smirked and said yes. It took some convincing to stop him from lugging all his stuff over that night.

"I'll unpack tomorrow," Peeta says, allowing the memory to float away. "Tonight's a big night. I've been distracted enough."

A dark, sinking feeling settles in my chest. I too had momentarily forgotten what would happen tonight, even though the television is on and the National News is giving reminders every fifteen minutes or so. There is no mandatory viewing anymore, so the government is hyping it up as the "can't-miss television special of the year".

Plutarch's one-year anniversary special is upon us.

I can't help but worry about how he's manipulated us, turned our innocently spoken words onto their heads. But even more than that, I worry about the other faces I'll see staring back at me from the screen. The lost shadows of my vicious past will appear, attempting to pull me down back into a world of death and disorder.

They've been sporadic and unpredictable over the last couple months, but I know the nightmares will come tonight. Part of me fears them, but another part welcomes them.

Lost in my thoughts, I nod to Peeta wearily.

"Hey," he says, his voice a little sharp as he tries to catch my attention. I look to him and see his piercing eyes searching my facial features in concern. "We don't have to watch this, you know."

I let out a little undignified snort, half laugh and half whimper. "Watching is the easy part. We've already lived through at all."

Peeta still looks a bit worried as he gives me a weak smile and takes my hand in his.

Dinner is a thick rabbit stew that's been simmering on the stove for most of the afternoon. Usually, it's my favorite meal, packed with a myriad of sharp flavors so delicious that I eat it up in no time. Tonight, the flavors go unnoticed as I manage to pass a few spoonfuls through my lips. Peeta eats better, but only slightly.

We return to our spots on the couch before the program begins. The next ten minutes of waiting feel tense and frigid. All I can do is hope that Plutarch, despite all his flaws, has kept his word. Hopefully he'll show the nation that I'm not some demented monster.

The program begins with the theme music of the National News, tweaked slightly by the use of additional instruments. An announcer tells us that this is a special news program and a fancy graphic pops onto the screen; a map of the districts encircled in a crest with the words "THE NEW PANEM" written across it.

And then we are met by a very unpleasant close-up on Plutarch's face. I involuntarily cringe at the sudden change.

"It's been nearly a year since the end of the peoples' victorious rebellion against a cruel and vindictive government under the reign of Former President Coriolanus Snow. In that time, Panem has reached great new heights in the quest for freedom and social well-being for all citizens. Yet many of us have been left almost entirely unaware of the tireless efforts of those leading the rebellion and how our newfound freedom came to fruition," Plutarch explains through the television.

"Someone else wrote this for him," Peeta states from where he sits next to me.

"Clearly," I agree.

"My name is Plutarch Heavensbee. I am a Capitol-born citizen who joined the rebellion to rid our nation of tyranny. Over the last several months, I have traveled tirelessly throughout Panem, interviewing my former rebel companions about our fight against injustice and the sacrifices they've made along the way. Tonight, the entire nation will discover the truth."

Peeta chokes back a laugh. "Truth!" He exclaims with disbelief.

It's easy to tell that Plutarch has set up the whole special around himself and all of his "friends" in the rebellion. There's a quick flash of each of us with him after the opening speech. Paylor, Cressida, Gale, Beetee, Johanna, Annie, and a few faces I recognize from District Thirteen but can't name are among them.

The shot of Peeta and I features us standing on Haymitch's front steps with Plutarch's back to the camera. I remember the moment well. Peeta's arm is outstretched close behind me as he holds Haymitch's door shut, but it looks as if he's casually leaning against it. He's smirking and I'm smiling devilishly, but only because I'm threatening to put an arrow through the camera that shot this footage. Without sound or Plutarch's shocked face on tape, it looks as if we're having an exciting conversation.

Plutarch's recount of our rebellion starts 75 years prior. He narrates the tale of the Dark Days over ghastly images of the districts destroyed. Finally, he gets around to the story of District Thirteen's secession from Panem, allowed by the government to avoid a nuclear war.

"Though Snow's regime was known to dispose of anyone caught spreading the rumor, word that District Thirteen was still alive and well in an underground complex spread from the Capitol through the districts. Decades later, the rumor would reach me and lead me to seek out the underground society created to strip the former government of its power."

Plutrach launches into extensive detail about District Thirteen, giving Panem a tour of the underground facilities where we were once forced to hide. He interviews a leader of the infantry in Thirteen, a man who I've only seen in passing who recounts the rebels extreme efforts and losses from the time they first began to fight right up until the fall of the Capitol in City Circle. His story is augmented by a more familiar member of the district: our drill instructor.

"Do you think that President Coin always had the best interest of District Thirteen in mind?" Plutarch asks them.

There's a close-up on a confused, weary face. Then the other soldier gives a vague response. "It's hard to say. We know she had some interest in uniting the districts, but-" The shot cuts out before the rest of his answer comes to light.

Plutarch paints a convenient picture of Alma Coin as a power-hungry politician who bided her time in a plan to take over the districts. It was the perfect set-up.

The picture of Coin fades into a video of a very familiar memory. Effie has been cut out, but we see Peeta walk up the steps of the Justice Building. The next shot is me holding back Prim and yelling "I volunteer!" I looked much younger back then.

"Alma Coin's opportunity to strike came when Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark won the 74th Annual Hunger Games." My stomach churns at the first mention of my name, followed by an image I've never seen before. Peeta and I staring at each other cautiously, a few nightlock berries in the palms of our hands.

I glance over at Peeta a bit uneasily, but his eyes are still locked on the television.

Shots of our Victory Tour were juxtaposed against shots of the uprising in District Eight. There's a voiceover over it all, too honest and familiar to be Plutarch.

"Snow didn't believe that we were in love," the voice explained. "He thought we acted the way we did just to start a rebellion. He said we needed to calm the rebellious districts and if we didn't, he'd kill us. When we didn't somehow stop the uprisings, Snow did his best to live up to his word." By the end of the small speech, the camera have focused in on Peeta, looking a bit bleary-eyed yet speaking as sharply and persuasively as ever.

Guilt floods my senses as I think back to the beginning. Peeta was probably playing to the camera when he suggested we were truly in love during the Victory Tour, but it may have been wishful thinking as well. I wish with all my heart that I has been strong enough to love him back then, but I know that I didn't. There were too many obstacles at the time.

Plutarch launches into the tale of the Quarter Quell, but his narration is punctuated by comments from important rebels along the way. Anne Odair speaks of Mags and Finnick with a quiet dignity. Johanna Mason's voice us harsh and bitter as she discusses being forced to kill other victors she'd befriended over the years. Beetee questions why it took 75 years before the people stood against such senseless killings. Peeta talks about never feeling safe.

I never get a chance to discuss my feelings on-screen, probably because I refused to delve into my feelings in front of the camera crew. Instead, a familiar face does it for me.

"Katniss did all that she could to keep up appearances, but I could tell she was hurting so badly through it all." He looks into the camera confidently, his eyes smoldering under the bright lights. Below his name, his fancy government title is listed. Next to it, added almost as an afterthought, was the title "Katniss Everdeen's best friend." But he isn't. Not anymore.

"Snow threatened to kill her family, Peeta's family, and my family if she stepped out of line," Gale tells the nation. I immediately regret not being more open with Plutarch, because this part of the story isn't Gale's to tell. It's mine.

It is, however, a natural segue into the firebombing of District Twelve. There's a small shot of me shooting and arrow toward an unseen point, the force field, before the camera goes black. His story begins there.

Gale's begins to tell the tale of watching us break from the arena and the consequences of my actions. The images shown are the grotesque aftermath of

the firebombing. Smoke rises from collapsed buildings. The dead are piled up against the fence in the meadow, where they were trying to escape into the woods. A child's doll lay blackened and alone in the middle of a street.

There's a flash of Peeta holding up his portraits of his family members from the memory book.

When I finally look over to Peeta, he looks as if he's about to be sick. My hand grabs for the television remote, desperate to end the horrid images. Just as my fingers curl around it, another hand clasps over mine.

"It's not our fault," Peeta says with fervor, clearly trying to convince himself as well. Gently, he pries the remote from my hand and places it on the top of the couch. I search his face for a long moment before turning back to the television set, where Plutarch is narrating his way through my journey into District Thirteen.

"We were supposed to save as many victors as we could, naturally!" Our drill instructor from Thirteen tells the cameras. "But the Capitol forces came in thick and fast. We needed to get whoever we could help and get out of there."

With Finnick, Beetee, and myself safe, the story focuses on Peeta, Johanna, and Annie becoming victims of vicious torture in the Capitol. They were beaten, starved, and forced to watch suspected rebels die. For some reason, Enobaria is cut from the story completely.

"I was bait," Annie explains quietly. Her brown hair falls in soft curls over her shoulders. She looks healthy, stronger than I remember. "Finnick and I loved each other so much that they knew he would come for me." She smiles morosely.

"Peeta and me became very familiar with the sounds of each other's screaming." Johanna repeats a similar sentiment to what she'd once told me with cool consistency, but her face sinks before she adds "But I never knew what they were doing to him."

Plutarch doesn't immediately explain what the Capitol was doing to Peeta. Most of Panem doesn't know, so a prompt explanation would ruin all the suspense. Instead, Gale and the soldiers from Thirteen explain their mission to rescue the captured as if it were a well-thought, easily approved plan. In reality, it was forced by my inability to perform as The Mockingjay without Peeta.

Thankfully, there was no documentation of Peeta and Johanna's arrival in District Thirteen. I will forever remember their frail, practically lifeless faces and their scars; Johanna's were physical, but Peeta's were emotional. I can't help but shiver uncomfortably at the distant memory. No, the nation doesn't need to see that.

What they don't get to see, they hear from Plutarch's narration. I wince as he describes how eager I was to see Peeta, how much I feared for his safety, and how quickly he gripped his hand around my throat and slammed me into a wall. Plutarch tells the audience that Peeta's behavior was due to a form of Capitol torture known as hijacking.

Next to me on the sofa, Peeta's rough hand grips mine firmly. I don't know if it's for his sake or mine.

"They injected me with tracker jacker venom," Peeta explains via the television. The shot goes wide and I can see his leg shaking uncontrollably. "It makes you paranoid and really impressionable. They'd get me that and tell me that Katniss never loved me; she was a just mutt created to destroy the rebellion. They showed me footage of her attacks and kills during our first games. They killed two avoxes in front of me, claiming Katniss wanted them dead."

There's a long distinct pause during which Peeta looks lost in agony before he adds "Death would have been better."

"Peeta Mellark was locked away in a private hospital ward, confined to visit from strange doctors who had no cure for him," Plutarch plays narrator. To make it worse, there's security camera footage of Peeta sleeping fitfully, handcuffed to the hospital bed. "But as word of his condition spread throughout the underground districts, a cure would come from an unlikely, very special source."

My interview makes its first appearance on screen, but I say nothing. Instead, I hold up Peeta's beautiful portrait of Prim in the memory book and stare at it longingly. There's footage of her dancing about at the wedding. The shot cuts away and there's a testimonial from everyone but me exclaiming just how special Prim was. Sweet. Innocent. Talented. Loving.

"Prim saw how the doctors used morphling to numb physical distress in other patients," Peeta says on-screen, his throat tense and his eyes suspicious. "She thought it could be used to calm emotional distress too. So the doctors started to give me morphling and talk about Katniss, let me watch the games again with a clearer head. When I wasn't so anxious, it was harder to believe the things Snow and his men has told me."

"Peeta Mellark got well enough to control his life. So well, in fact, that he was able to give a very special gift to two of his fellow victors," Plutarch tells the audience while the camera pans up from the bottom of a white linen tablecloth to Peeta's elaborate cake on top of it.

The District Four wedding song begins to play over beautiful edited footage Annie walking down the aisle toward Finnick, then the two of them covered in a seaweed net, exchanging the traditional vows from their district. Everyone testifies to how beautiful the wedding was, how special a couple Finnick and Annie were. Then an upbeat tempo rattles through the television and we're all dancing, the rebels and refugees alike. Everyone is there except Peeta.

A dramatic note rings out as Plutarch announces that the rebels happiness was only fleeting, because soon every available soldier was sent off to the Capitol, to war.

"We all know how the rebel militia slowly overtook the Capitol forces to free the people of Panem, but there's an untold story buried deep within. The tale of love, pain, and sacrifice among the most elite of rebels, the consummate survivors known as The Star Squad. Tonight, the survivors tell their story."

The video footage from the Squad 451 propos play, pausing briefly on each of our faces as we shoot at unseen targets and "strategize" amongst ourselves. Our names and faces are introduced to the audience one by one, with Peeta and I showing up last. Then finally, we speak.

My interview shows up on the screen again, but this time I finally speak. "It was a simple enough mission. We were to check an abandoned neighborhood for possible threats. We weren't expecting to actually find any, but we did."

In typical Plutarch fashion, the acted out shots of the Star Squad flattening out and hiding in doorways to avoid fake gunfire are shown. Then the angle moves to the view we all saw on Capitol television, taken from a security camera high above it all.

Even though I know he's going to do it, something inside me begs Boggs not to step backwards. When he does, Peeta and I are forced to relive the chaos. Nothing is cut out. Boggs is there with me, bloody stumps for legs, reprogramming the holo. A wall of dark gelatinous ooze begins to rise. Peeta almost lodges the butt of his gun into my head, then throws Mitchell into a pod. Gale and Leeg trying to shoot him down until eventually Finnick pushes us all into the nearest home.

Peeta appears on the screen, looking bitter and remorseful. "I don't know what happened to me in that moment."

To my surprise, it's Gale who shows his face next. "It's easy to understand how Peeta got confused," he says very stiffly, like a government official explaining a new policy. "It got dark and hazy very quickly. We didn't know if the Capitol forces were coming for us. He'd already been captured once. He thought Katniss was a Capitol soldier attacking Boggs, then he fought off Mitchell because he thought he was being attacked himself."

Peeta's voice rings out in surprise from where he sits on the couch next to me. "Why would he make all that up to cover me?"

_Because he cares about you_, I think. I can't think of any other reasons, but I can't bring myself to tell Peeta that the one man who almost stood in the way of our relationship is looking out for him. I stare at him innocently as Cressida describes our escape to another apartment and the revelation of my "real mission" to assassinate President Snow on the television.

"I don't know," I tell him meekly.

I turn back to the television with a lump in my throat just as Gale finishes explaining Pollux's expert guidance in the sewers. Footage of Castor and Pollux by the lake is shown as President Paylor's voice condemns the creation of avoxes in the former regime. She promises that no more suspected criminals will be forced into such a life by the new government.

"Believed to be dead and making tremendous progress, the Star Squad thought it safe to rest." Another ominous note plays after Plutarch speaks. "But they were wrong."

The face on the screen switches between myself, Peeta, Gale, and Cressida as we all do our best to describe the vile mutts that mercilessly attacked rebels and Peacekeepers alike. My breath hitches and I hold the air in my lungs, refusing to breathe in through my nose for a moment. I swear can I still smell the roses.

Something about this bit of the show makes me terribly uneasy. It's cut together to sound fast-paced and dramatic, but it glosses over the event's significance and every death... until the last one.

"Finnick was fighting so hard. There were just too many of them," i hear myself say on the television. It's surreal to watch tears well up in my own eyes at a distance.

"I really thought he was going to make it." Gale stares at the ground, his eyes as wide as saucers.

There's a short but powerful break from our story as the cameras show Annie Odair, odd and unsettled but still magnificently happy as she introduces the world to the baby boy bundled in her arms.

"This is Finn," she sighs, "and someday he'll know that his father was a hero."

A few more minutes pass as Annie describes Finnick's best qualities and comes to terms with his death as best she can with a camera glaring in her face. I want to reach out to Annie, to hold Finn. I'm glad that I've already processed most of my feelings about this amazing child, otherwise I'd start blubbering right now.

It's the greatest, most tragic love story in Panem's history. Plutarch has done his job well.

Slowly, we travel back into the story. We're hiding out in Tigris' shop. Cressida describes the dingy space we called home as the rebels moved in on City Circle. The distorted face of Tigris appears, describing our behavior during that time as "too worried and too quiet".

Finally, we're in City Circle. Capitol security cameras replay the whole scene from a safe distance that keeps things from looking too graphic. The square is packed with citizens and soldiers from both sides. Pods go off indiscriminately, taking whoever is closest down with them. I try to find myself in the midst of the chaos, but I can't make sense of the images before me. The only thing I can see is the children penned up in front of Snow's mansion, reaching for silver parachutes as they fall from the sky.

The screen goes black before the parachutes reach their hands.

When a picture finds the screen again, it's Plutarch and I in my living room.

"And that's where you lost your sister."

"Yes."

I wish I had said more. Thankfully, I'm reading for the memory book in the next shot, talking about my conversation with Prim in the emergency shelter deep inside District Thirteen. The one when she told me how happy she was, how much hope she had for the future, and perhaps most importantly now, how she wanted to see me happy.

Peeta lets out a strangled noise next to me. I save him the embarrassment and choose not to look over.

The special celebrates the capture and eventual death of President Snow, but it also highlights a dark element of what would have been Coin's new government: Another Hunger Games featuring Capitol children.

"Just before Snow's execution, she told the victors what she planned to do," I tell Panem. I still feel a bit guilty about twisting the true meaning of my words.

"It was Coin's idea of getting even with the people who killed children from the districts," Johanna explains, looking more confident than nervous.

Peeta looks panicky when his face appears on screen. "I begged them not to do it," he says. "I told them it would make us no better than the people we've been fighting against."

"She was corrupt!" I appear as fierce as The Mockingjay again in that moment, totally in control of the nation's spirit. "She was no better than Snow!"

With this top secret information in mind, Plutarch explains, I had no other choice than to kill Alma Coin before she too became a tyrannical dictator. My trial and eventual release into District Twelve is discussed briefly.

Before coming to a close, there's a brief round-up of our new lives. Paylor discusses our progress as a nation. Johanna talks about the state of District Seven and her new job providing aid to those affected by war. Cressida highlights how life in the Capitol has changed for the better, though I'm not certain she means it. Plutarch gloats about his new position and the joys of traveling throughout Panem, but makes up for it a bit by mentioning that Pollux also works for the Department of Communications.

Gale and his new job are located in District Two. He recently won an award for his work tracking down Snow's loyalists. There's footage of him entering the event in a tuxedo, clean-shaven with a smug grin. A tall, thin woman in a ornate ball gown walks arm-and-arm with him. It takes me a moment to realize who she is: Leevy, a girl who grew up with us in the Seam. I let out a little laugh. I knew she'd made it to District Thirteen, but I never knew she'd made it into Gale's arms after that.

"I never thought I'd be as happy as I am right now," Gale confirms through the power of television, "but I'm really happy."

A tear trickles down my cheek. His name will forever bring up conflict in my memories, but right now I can't help but be happy for him. I'm so incredibly elated by his happiness. Deep down, I know he still deserves it.

Then something interesting happens. Peeta and I go back and forth describing life in District Twelve, the bakery, and briefly, each other. We weren't speaking at the time, yet Plutarch's edits make it look as if we're thinking the same thoughts, finishing each other's sentences. I know it's partly camera magic, but it feels so right.

The television goes silent as a close-up of Peeta's face appears on-screen. He's twirling something in his fingers, held up right in front of his eyes. With a begrudging smirk, he holds it out further and the fuzzy image becomes clear.

I gasp, unable to control myself. My body leans in as close to the television as possible without moving off the couch.

It's my pearl. The one Peeta gave me during the Quarter Quell. But it's been placed is a stunning swirled white gold band, simple yet elegant.

"I was thinking about giving her this," Peeta explains to Plutarch, though his voice sounds unsure. "To show her I love her. To make a fresh start."

"Do you want to marry her?" Plutarch asks.

Peeta's ice blue eyes nearly pierce through the screen when he looks up, covered in a watery sheen. "I've always wanted to marry her," he says.

The footage changes as my dizzied mind tries to connect and reconfigure everything I've seen in the last minute or so. It's now accompanied by a video of Peeta kissing me passionately in my doorway the night we finally made up. Neither of us knew that the cameraman had been there.

Plutarch falsely reports to the nation that Peeta and I are blissfully engaged, though we've not yet set a date for the wedding.

With that, it's over. Plutarch gives a short, righteous speech and thanks to nation for watching and discovering the true story of the new Panem. The television flashes brightly before clicking off. Peeta sits next to me with the remote in hand, looking slightly dumbfounded. We stare at each other, neither of us moving or speaking for ages.

"I don't know why I showed him that," he finally pipes up.

I know I shouldn't press my luck. I should be grateful just to be in love, but I ask anyway. "Why didn't you show me that?"

"I didn't know if you'd want it." Peeta shrugs and looks away, baring all his insecurities for me to see. "At least not now."

"Of course I want it," I let out in a high-pitched whisper. "After all this-" I gesture towards the television as my words fail me. "Of course I want to be-"

"Engaged?" Peeta finishes for me. All I can do is nod.

Peeta stands up from his spot on the couch and looks down on me. I'm immediately confused, unsure if my words somehow conflict with Peeta's true emotions. Maybe the whole thing was a tactic he'd used to make me jealous. Maybe I'd imagined it.

But if that's the case, why is Peeta fishing a small silvery band out of his pocket and kneeling down in front of me?

"Then marry me," he challenges me. His voice is thick and raw with emotion, but his sincere intent is clear. "Promise you'll marry me."

What was once a trickle of a teardrop is now a steady stream down my face. I try to control it, but it's useless. I lean myself into Peeta, kissing him with every ounce of energy I can muster. I lose my balance and we topple backwards onto the hardwood floor, but we're too busy laughing and crying all at once to care.

"Yes, I'll marry you," I tell Peeta. "I promise I'll marry you."

Slowly, gently, Peeta reaches for my hand and slides the ring onto my finger. It's a little big at the moment, but it doesn't matter.

For once, it feels like everything is going to be okay.


End file.
